Kirra's Journey - Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II
by Jennyslaw
Summary: In Part 2, Kirra meets a strange new cast of characters who threaten her chance to warn Hercules of Hera. On the run, her friendship with Tauthé is tested. While Hercules battles the Enforcer in Thebes, Iolaus battles his past and the depths of Tartarus, all as the girl who would have been a princess comes face to face with a Queen and the seeds of her true destiny.
1. Book 1, Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _Hercules the Legendary Journeys_ and its characters belong to _MCA/Universal_ and _Renaissance Pictures_. The Kirra's Journey series is a profit-free endeavor to have fun with these characters and pass it on to my readers. The character of Kirra and Tauthé, and any other original characters in this series belong solely to me.

 **Author's Note** **:** Part II of _The Longest Journey_ is what I like to call an "add-in" to the HTLJ episode _Not Fade Away,_ the one in which Iolaus dies at the hands of the second Enforcer _._ Part I led up to that episode, and now, Part II meets up with it. I do not intend to make very many (if any) changes to the episode except to give it a little more feeling. Michael Hurst's performance in the episode is its only highlight. His "death" was very well acted. Every other performance, particularly during that death scene, was, in my opinion, not good. I've wanted to revisit that scene in written form for ages. No other episodes are specifically impacted but _Not Fade Away_ , so go re-watch it to get prepared for Kirra's newest adventures in New Greeceland!

In Part II, Kirra meets a strange new cast of characters who threaten not only her life but her chance to warn Hercules of Hera's wrath. Once again on the run with Tauthé, she'll learn of the girl's origins, which could put to the test their quick bond of friendship. At the same time, Hercules battles the Enforcer while Iolaus battles his past and discovers more than his father Skouros in its depths. In the midst of it all, the girl who would have been a princess comes face to face with a Queen and the seeds of her true destiny.

* * *

 **Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

The earth crunched beneath her sandaled feet. Air was the only tangible sensation. It entered her lungs in thin streams, fetid, heavy, and too rotten to breathe. She managed if only to remain alive. Every other sensation had been given over to imagination. She walked in a sea of blackness, arms raised in front of her to ward off any unseen danger. Sound, on the other hand, came to Kirra like cotton waded in the ear.

"Hello?"

Even to Kirra's own ears, her voice sounded far away and disturbingly unreal, a ghostly apparition of sound floating on the wind, not her own. A part of her knew she should be questioning her whereabouts. She should be asking the questions anyone would were one to suddenly find oneself alone and in the dark. And yet, the questions didn't surface in her floundering mind. They floated like her voice somewhere behind as might an unspoken thought.

From out of the darkness came a low and ominous sound. It bounced and echoed off the walls but met her ears in a register unmistakable as laughter. Kirra searched for its owner with useless eyes, twisting this way and that. Try as she might to find it, no shape manifested itself but the shape of fear. Fear seared its way from her gut to her extremities.

"Is anyone there?"

Another sound, this one not ominous but strangely familiar. A continuous sound, one of motion. Spinning. Yes, that was it. Something was spinning and it was close. There was always the chance that the sound was nothing more than a lure pulling her toward doom, but Kirra had nothing else. She had to find it or risk losing her mind.

She moved toward it and… _crunch_. It was like the carapaces of beetles beneath her feet. Kirra shook her head, determined not to contemplate upon what she walked. There was only the sound of spinning.

And light? Yes. Up ahead, a shimmering pinpoint of light.

"Hello?"

Moving faster now, every step bringing her closer to a light that grew in size and definition. A flicker of flame. Torchlight! Kirra picked up her pace and tried to ignore the ugly crunch beneath her feet. Only the gods knew what her feet touched. She couldn't concern herself with just now. There was nothing between her and the light. She had to reach it or else be lost forever.

Like staring through a keyhole overflowing with light and mist, Kirra reached the place where the pinpoint became a torch raging with a continual flame. Its light restored her sight and granted her a vision at the same time.

She had entered a chamber of some sort, a semi-circle of jagged rock walls. The effect was claustrophobic, but anything was better than complete darkness. Darkness destroyed the mind; left one cold and empty. Torchlight filled one with hope. Even if hope were as small as a pinprick, Kirra was willing to take whatever she could get. Her only hope came in the form of three figures.

Kirra came to a stop, breathing as if she had run miles. Surely, she couldn't have run the distance her body demanded she had! Still, it wasn't exhaustion that stilled her feet. It was the image before her. Familiar and yet, foreign.

Three women—one a child, one a young woman, and the other old—their faces drawn and bereft of expression. They stood beside the very instrument that had drawn her all this way, the sound she heard it the dark—a spinning wheel. She knew without having to ask who they were. She had written of them once long ago when she had the time to devote to such erstwhile endeavors; when she felt compelled to write of a man she adored and worshipped, but had never met. The woman who called herself the goddess of love had given Kirra an image of one of them once, though the child before her would likely never develop the curves Aphrodite had filled out in Clotho's white dress.

They were the Fates, or as her mother had often called them, Moirai. Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. The spinner, the measurer, and the cutter of life's thread.

One thread, in particular, spun through their wheel and collected within Clotho's spindle. The collection had not the thickness of the spindles that lined shelves built into the wall behind them. Some were very thin, with only a few yards worth of spun thread. Others were fat, wider than the spindle itself. But each had woven within it differing colors. Whites mixed with yellows and blues, interspersed here and there with grays and deep hues of fiery orange. On a few of them, blood reds bled into dead black.

Kirra shivered. These colors weren't only on the spooled and cut ones. Red and black existed upon the current spindle of thread. Her own thread. It had to be. Why else would she be here?

Clearing her throat (because one doesn't just talk to the gods without showing some form of humility), Kirra took a step toward them. "Excuse me?"

As the words left her mouth, she felt sick. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. Surely, she was dreaming. If it was real, standing here talking to the Fates, she was but one step from the Underworld.

Clotho looked upon her but did not speak. Here in these dark confines, the girl glowed with the radiance of the sun, her prettiness incomparable. The raiment of flowing white cloth covered her in innocence and purity itself, from the hood on her head to where it pooled at her sandaled feet, but that's where her innocence ended. The lack of expression on her face spoke of one who'd been at the work so long she'd long since been stripped of youth and vitality.

Kirra cleared her throat once more at the intensity of the girl's stare. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to interrupt, but I'm lost and I need to…" Need to what? "…find my way."

"Your way is set," Clotho said with a child's voice far too wise for her years.

"You need only follow it," Lachesis added without looking up from the thread stretched across her hands.

And lastly, the older one spoke, her voice thick with age and disuse. "Do not let yourself stray from it."

Kirra shook her head. "But where do I go? How will I know if I'm straying?"

"Your past will teach you the way," Clotho said.

Lachesis followed with, "But be cautious of the present…"

"For there will be many distractions," Atropos finished. "Your choices will determine your future."

"I don't understand," Kirra said.

She now felt more lost than when she came here. Why did she come here? To ask questions that had no form? Only to receive answers with even less coherence? But there was one question on her mind, one sole answer she sought even though she buried it, along with its significance, among the refuse in the back of her mind. Kirra opened her mouth to ask it when the laughter she heard moments before echoed back toward her. Its ominous tone reached for her like tenebrous hands from the darkness on her right.

"No one ever understands the Fates, my dear," said its voice, a tinge of laughter lingering like a contemptuous slap.

Its owner came near, taking shape in a long black dress that torchlight reflected toward Kirra in an unbelievably iridescent shimmer. She had never seen a fabric with such obsidian radiance, even with her myriad of trips into Corinth with Alcmene. She had witnessed cloth of such variety of color and design that it boggled the mind, but this…this dress was godlike. What Alcmene had once called "sequins" decorated the bodice, shooting colors of the deepest purples and the darkest blues toward her; though Kirra knew they were more than mere trinkets sewn into fabric, for the woman who wore it was more than a mere woman.

She wore a similarly iridescent crown upon her head. Her face was pale. Her eyes were the color of ice, and when she smiled, there was no warmth in her blood red lips.

"The Fates always speak in riddles. Even I have trouble understanding them sometimes."

Kirra couldn't find her voice. Something had damned the flow of words from her mouth and it was nothing short of stark terror. In this unearthly place, surrounded by all this darkness and rank air, Kirra couldn't find her bravery. She became the little girl terrified of her stepfather's rage again because the woman with a crown upon her head and an appearance of sympathy to disguise a latent malice could be only one person.

The woman extended a hand. "Hera, Queen of the gods."

Kirra's blood ran cold and her breath came short.

Hera narrowed her eyes. "But you know that already, don't you?"

When Kirra didn't readily accept her hand, Hera brought her ungloved hand to Kirra's face and touched her cheek. Fingers like ice cubes chilled her skin.

"Such an astute girl," Hera said. "I used to be like you once. So young and fresh and pretty. So full of wonder for the future. I held the world in my hands…"

The queen of the gods was not what Kirra expected. Not by far. The statues that depicted her were always of a younger woman with a smiling face. And why not? In the eyes of her worshippers, she represented the ideal woman. She was the very face of marriage and family. But the woman's heart was as ice cold as her eyes and she quickly displayed it in a melodramatic sneer.

"…until Zeus destroyed it."

Her fingers tightened momentarily around Kirra's cheek, and then she let go and walked out of Kirra's sight. Warmth fought to creep back into her flesh, but Kirra wasn't about to let her guard down. The crunch of the ground beneath Hera's feet signaled that she hadn't gone very far.

"But you understand betrayal, don't you, Kirra of Endor?"

Something about knowing the Queen of the gods knew her name watered Kirra's eyes and compelled her to speak. Was it that her tone of voice seemed to demand an answer?

"I don't know what you mean." She'd tried hard to keep the tremor from her voice but failed.

"Oh, come now…" The sound of Hera's voice had moved to her opposite side, blocking any side view of the Fates. "You've walked in the sandals of betrayal almost as much as I have." Kirra frowned and Hera answered with a smile. "You're father abandoned you so long ago for war and privilege."

"No, that's not true. He died in battle."

"You're mother gave up the love of her only daughter for the comfort of a man. Tsk, tsk."

"That's not how it was."

Hera came to a stop in front of Kirra, her smile gone. "No, of course, it wasn't." Cynicism didn't just drip from her lips. She _became_ cynicism. "We both know the outcome of that arrangement, my dear. What _he_ did to you is unforgivable. But we both know it wasn't your fault."

Terror should have taken her to even imagine disagreeing with the Queen of the gods, but Kirra found her voice. "It wasn't my mother's either."

"No, no, that deed falls squarely on your step-father, and trust me when I say, he is meeting my retribution for what he did. But let us be honest. Can we not place some of that blame at the feet of the man you think you love?"

Kirra's breath caught in her throat. "Hercules?"

"Love can be such a fickle thing. It comes and goes on a whim, especially when you're young. I used to think I was in love, too."

"No, I can't blame Hercules. He was there for me. He saved me. He—"

"'The only hero you have is yourself,'" Hera taunted. "Isn't that what he said? He didn't save you, girl. He left you so that beast of a stepfather could take what he wanted of you. If Hercules had truly saved you, dear, you wouldn't have done what you had to do that night." Hera looked down her nose at Kirra, daring her. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"But, I…he…you can't say…"

Tears came then. Kirra had nothing, no words to assuage the truth that had lived inside her since that night. She couldn't tell Hera she was wrong any more than she could convince her that she wasn't the queen of the gods and that this was all a dream. Somewhere inside, a secret part of her had always blamed Hercules for what happened that night, and when he spurned her advances and broke her heart, he turned her every motivation into a pointless endeavor.

Heartbroken and bleeding from more than the wound to her heart, Kirra could hardly fight Hera when she took her into her arms.

"There, there, my dear," she said, smoothing the curls on the back of Kirra's head. "Cry it out. All young women should have a good cry over their first love. Never forget the sage advice your mother once gave you before you set out on this journey of yours: 'All men are the same.' Despite his breeding, Hercules is still just a man."

Like an arctic breeze, the arms around Kirra turned cold, and the words that followed were enough to chill her from the inside out. "And that's why I mean to end him."

Her words were like a metaphorical poison poured into the ear. How could she allow herself to forget, even for a moment, who this woman was? Kirra pushed from Hera's grasp.

"Get away from me! You're a murderer."

Her smile was caustic. "As are you."

She could not refute that, but she had regained an ounce of bravery. "You murdered Hercules's family. An innocent woman and her three children! Don't dare talk to me of betrayal!"

"Does not a lion slaughter cubs when he takes over a pride? It is the natural way of things."

"No, it isn't. How do you justify trying to kill me?"

"I tried to get your attention."

"Well, you have it. Why have you brought me here?"

"My dear, you came of your own volition. Why don't you ask yourself why you came?"

Why had she come? She didn't recall making her way here. She couldn't fathom a reason why she would leave Tauthé alone to the whims of a madman like Nergal the way Hercules had—

No. Kirra shrugged the thought away. Hera was trying to poison her against him. She wouldn't let that happen.

"I did not choose to come here only to listen to your lies."

Hera's light laughter filled the chamber, echoing as though there were thousands of her, while she ran her finger along Kirra's lifeline. "The Fates do not seek out anyone, Kirra. Only you can seek out the Fates. You must have come to inquire of something." She turned a grin her way. "Your destiny, perhaps?"

"Destiny," Kirra spat out derisively. "It's a word made up to make people believe they're capable of something they're not."

The finger of the queen touched lightly upon the red mark in Kirra's line. "Oh, you were quite capable. Do not let yourself be fooled, Kirra, by impish goddesses who like to view their world through a rose-colored veil. You _are_ destined for greatness, and you _will_ affect the lives of many, but it is not as she says."

Over the queen's shoulder, Clotho stared pointedly at Kirra. A subtle but desperate emotion, more than anything she had witnessed from the girl since she'd come here, eked from her. And it vanished just as quickly when Hera tossed a glance over her shoulder. The girl was trying to make a connection, to tell her something. But what? She would never know if Hera continued to dissuade her.

Kirra took a step forward. She didn't want to know, but if it meant protecting the girl from harm…

"What is my destiny?"

Hera returned her glacial gaze back to Kirra. "Do not ask them. Remember, they only speak in riddles. I can read your lifeline just as well as they can. Ask me."

That wasn't a gentle question. That was a demand. Kirra swallowed and asked again, only this time, she didn't sound so sure of herself. "What is my destiny?"

Hera smiled, but there was no kindness in it, nor was there anything welcoming in the extension of her hand. Her fingers glowed with a chatoyant luminosity, mesmerizing in their brilliance. Kirra took back the step she had taken and more thereafter. It was a good thing she had, for a ball of color and lightning flew from the god queen's fingers. It shot like a dagger into the ground at her feet.

Kirra lost her balance. She fell to the hard ground, watching the shadows run away as though chased by the brilliance of Hera's power. The chamber floor exploded with light, and for the first time, Kirra saw what she had been walking upon.

Skulls. Charred as though with fire. They littered the ground like refuse, forming an uneven cobblestone surface. Missing teeth and crooked jaws grinned back at her. Open ocular cavities stared without means of sight but with a vision of death so clear Kirra felt its denunciation. Her feet had walked upon them. The hem of her skirt of had floated above them. But worst of all was the sight of the whiteness of her own fingers splayed overtop the curve of a human skull.

"You want to know your destiny, Kirra of Endor?" Hera asked, her voice choked with indignant laughter. " _This_ is your destiny!"

She raised her arms and the light rose with her. It crawled the walls of the chamber like the rising of a red sun. What Kirra saw made her wish for the insanity of complete darkness.

Hanging from the walls were hundreds of bodies in various forms of decay—from bones with dry rot skin clinging to bare ribcages, to decomposing bodies dripping with their own putrescence, to fresh kills still running with blood. This was the fetid stench that had been assaulting her nose. Death. It occupied every corner of the room, though she could not have seen it before. In one corner, she saw a face more familiar than any of them. Mother. Throat slit. Mouth and eyes wide in silent horror…

Terror leapt into Kirra's throat. Over Hera's laughter, she screamed until it echoed back to her a thousand times over…


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note : I've edited the first chapter. If you read it once before, please go back and re-read it before beginning this one. There have been slight changes made.**

* * *

 **Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Kirra sat upright so fast, the bed skittered over the hardwood floor and moved the frame a good inch away from the wall. She was in her bedroom, the sun beaming through the curtains fluttering in the morning breeze. She was alone.

It wasn't real. It was just a dream. A horrible dream, but a dream nonetheless.

"Thank the gods," she said, laughing at the pun, but that wave of welcome relief soon became a frown. Unsolicited tears welled in her eyes.

As it had so many times after one of Hiram's tirades, the need to break down tugged at her with frantic little fingers, but Kirra wouldn't let it take hold. She pulled the reigns on that overwhelming emotion and willed her heart to slow its pace. It would not get the better of her. She was stronger than fear, stronger than the past. And that's all it was. The past resurfacing and mixing with the present.

Kirra settled her brow onto her raised knees and drew in a calming breath and whispered quietly to herself, "Just a dream."

Yet the bedroom seemed so unfamiliar. She felt as if she hadn't slept here in ages. There was no cavern chamber. This was her bedroom in Alcmene's home, the one she'd slept in for the past year. No imaginary women spun a wheel of fate in one corner. No torchlight flickered and crackled against the wall, and there was certainly no Queen offering her a horrifying vision of the future.

 _So why do I keep hearing her laughter?_

Kirra thought to stop up her ears, but the voice wasn't in the room. It was in her head. She would hear it no matter if she stopped or unstopped her ears, as would the dead face of her mother continue to haunt her waking mind whether her eyes were open or closed. The desire to get home to Mother was more desperate now than it had been a day ago. She was no oracle, and she certainly wasn't psychic. A dream was just a dream. A manifestation of the fears that huddled inside the mind. Mother was fine. She couldn't be—

Kirra never finished her thought. The sound of someone rummaging downstairs nearly had her jumping out of her skin. The last couple of days ran through her mind in a blur.

Sadness. A planned trip to Thebes. But she wouldn't go. She couldn't see Hercules again, not after he'd…

Could it be Alcmene and Jason had returned? No. She had run away. Climbed out the window just the way Benjamin had shown her. Climbed out and ran away to Corinth in the hopes of finding a way home to Mother. But what did she find? A goddess who wanted to pull her in the opposite direction. An arrogant thief who fancied himself a sheik. A red-haired demon who sought to kill her, and a girl much like herself who wanted to escape an ugly past.

Of course! Kirra's eyes fell upon the leather slaver's outfit draped across the back of a chair. She remembered how she had promised to clean it free of mud. Tauthé! There could be no one else but Tauthé downstairs. Looking for breakfast, perhaps.

Still in her dress from the night before, Kirra threw back the blankets and quickly padded across the floor in her bare feet. Breakfast sounded like a wonderful idea! She opened the door and went down the creaky steps without a thought, her fear of being followed the night before having vanished with the brightness of a new day. By now, they had surely avoided their foes. Who would think to find either of them safe and sound in such a humble abode?

Down the stairs and through the hallway, Kirra followed the sound to its source and halted like an immovable stone at the entrance to the kitchen.

Standing over the hearth and picking through the ashes of Jason's last fire was a sight she didn't associate with her memory of Tauthé (strange, that it should still seem so long ago). The first thing her befuddled and dream-addled mind could comprehend was the shape of a bear. A bear standing on two heavily trussed and booted legs. Hands without claws sifted through ashes like a beast searching for the scent of its prey. Some part of her mind told her it wasn't a bear at all but a man wearing a bear pelt. The absurdity of it this early in the fall didn't fail to register, but the sight of something so bizarre, so wild and feral in Alcmene's neat and orderly home left Kirra in a flummox.

Her first thought should have been concern for Tauthé. She should have wanted to know right away where she was and if she was safe. If this was one of Nergal's men, they were certainly in trouble. She knew she should run, but her feet had become rooted to the floor as they had been in the cavern of her dreams.

And just like that, the dream came barreling back to her consciousness. She saw the obsidian fabric of a goddess's dress and the black opalescent reflection of sequins refracting torchlight. Even as the man in the bear pelt sensed her presence and rose to a height taller than that of Hercules himself, Kirra saw in him the essence of Hera. His skin was as black as her dress. Never in her life had seen skin of such a color before. She saw beauty in it, but she also saw the colors on the threads of life inside the chamber. Reds that bled into black. She had an inkling of what they meant, and at that moment, she saw that meaning in his dark, accusing eyes.

"It is _you,_ " he said with a heavy accent and drew a curved blade from a scabbard at his side only to point it at her. It's sharp edges were stained a dark brown.

The scream she had worked up came unhinged from the dark place of her dream. Just the day before she hadn't wanted to see Hercules any more than she wanted to read another letter of Benjamin's or hear Iolaus call her princess. Now, she could think of nothing else more comforting than the sight of either one of them. She would have given anything to see them again, but there was only Hera and this man who seemed to emblazon her image upon his complexion. Kirra screamed…

But not for long. A gloved hand came from behind and turned her scream into a muffled cry. Another came around her torso, pinning her arms to her side and her body against a hard frame.

"Don't do that," came a whisper at her ear. "Wouldn't want to draw the neighbors. They're far too close."

Kirra's scream still played out behind the gloved hand like a desperate cry. Tears threatened again, but she fought them as she had before. She'd been in worse situations, hadn't she? Thrown into a dank, dark dungeon. Beaten by guards. Nearly burned alive at the stake! This was nothing. She just needed to get her wits about her. She didn't know the voice behind her any more than she knew the dark-skinned man standing before her. She made herself focus on the voice—a husky but careful voice with less of an accent and more of a grasp of her own language. It was a man, judging by the tautness of his voice. His strength made her even more certain. He held her tightly enough to stifle her breathing.

The dark-skinned man stepped forward. His blade hadn't lowered. "Ask her where she is. Ask her!"

Kirra frowned. _She?_

"All in good time, brother." That her mystery man's voice had diminished in volume meant he had turned his attention to the other one, but he soon returned to her. "As long as she promises not to scream. Do you think you can do that, girl?"

She looked at the dark-skinned man with the bear's head resting on his dark skull and trembled, raising her chin in his direction.

"I promise, no harm will come to you," the mystery man answered in response. If she heard right, a hint of warning glowering in his tone.

In return, the dark-skinned man lowered his blade and added, "For now, but I want answers."

"You'll get them. Patience."

The dark-skinned man growled much like the symbol he wore over his body on this overly warm fall morning, but hardly a second had passed before the other man's breath was a hot, desperate wind at her ear again. "Now, do you promise not to scream?"

Kirra hadn't much time for contemplation, but what few seconds she had, she used to plan her attack. One doesn't spend a week traveling the roads with Hercules and not learn a little something about how to defend oneself.

Trembling, for she still had not quite gotten over her terror of the dark-skinned man, Kirra nodded to the one who held her in his tight grip. She was desperate for a lungful of air, but held it and chose her intakes carefully, stilling herself for the moment when she could make use of the tactics Iolaus had taught her.

Yes, Iolaus. As much as she had been loath to have him teach her instead of Hercules, his tactics well-suited someone of her height. Of course, it helped that he was as short as her.

Mystery Man removed his hand one finger at a time. His grip around her loosened. Kirra was ready.

Before he could slide his arm away from her torso and take a step back, Kirra raised her left foot and brought her heel down with every ounce of force she could pull from her weary body. A grunt of pain sounded behind her. She wouldn't give him a chance to completely voice it before she reared her head back and made contact with his face. The next step would involve a bit of finesse, but if she were quick enough—

She wasn't.

Iolaus had taught her that if you head-butted a man just right, you could off balance him enough to bend down, grab his leg between your own and pull him right off his feet. That might have given her the chance to run, but Kirra never made it that far. Iolaus hadn't gotten around to teaching her how to defeat two men at once, especially when one of them brought a wickedly curved blade to your throat.

"One more time," he snarled. "I dare you."

Not even a second later, the other batted the blade away and took her gruffly by the neck to push her against the wall. He ended her will and her ability to fight in two moves. She couldn't have landed a good kick to his groin (another of the tactics Iolaus had taught her) if she wanted to. His heavy boots squashed her bare feet into the floor and he used his body to immobilize her own. If she gave any thought to using her hands in defense, the dark-skinned man and his curved blade were there to nip at her flesh if she tried.

But for now, at least she could get a good look at the second of her attackers. He was hooded, the majority of his face swathed in the shadows it created, but what she could see didn't lend any stillness to her heart. Though he wasn't nearly as tall or as dark complexioned as the companion he called "brother," the cowl he wore sparsely hid a face that had been bronzed by the sun. More outstanding than the fact that he clearly enjoyed the effects of the sun's rays when he wasn't out pillaging, were his eyes. She'd only seen their color once before and it wasn't all that long ago. The color of ice.

His gaze pierced right through Kirra and into her soul. So direct was his inspection of her, it was as if he could read her thoughts. Kirra nearly missed the subtle things about him that she might have related if questioned by a constable—the day or two worth of stubble on his cheeks, the scar beneath his right eye that had been enhanced with a fanged tattoo, and the cowl that upon closer inspection was designed in the pattern of a wolf's head—but every one of them lent to the animalistic quality she saw in those ice blue eyes.

Kirra shivered and he smiled, surprising her with teeth as white as the whites of his eyes. Both stood out against his bronzed skin and the shadows created by the wolf's head cowl as if lit by the sun.

"Clever girl. Who taught you how to defend yourself? Father? Brother?" He grinned. "Lover?"

"None of your business," Kirra hissed while attempting to twist out of his grip. She scratched the hand that had her about the neck, but there was no penetrating the fabric that covered him from his hooded head down to the booted feet that squashed hers.

"All you need to know is that I almost bested you." She grinned back. "Left a nice sized welt right between your eyes."

His grip on her throat loosened for only a second, long enough for his lips to twist into a snarl and her head to pull away from the wall before he reasserted his grip. The back of her head hit the wall hard enough to hurt.

His face was inches from hers. "I'll give you that, girl. I'll even color myself impressed. But you wouldn't have gotten far. That I can _promise you_." On those last two words, his eyes seemingly lit with a blue flame and his voice deepened to an earthy growl.

Kirra coughed, fighting the urge to panic and telling herself she hadn't seen what she thought she saw. Her need for air was growing desperate. It was making her see things. But she wasn't imagining the sharp point of a blade stinging the tender flesh on the side of her face. She didn't have to guess who it was.

At her side, the dark-skinned man said in a gravelly voice, "No more game. I will ask you one time… Where is she?"

Kirra wouldn't let terror take her, no matter how much it fought to, no matter if the essence of her dream exuded from her two attackers, one in the exquisite darkness of his skin and the other in the savage chill in his blue eyes. She held her terror under a tight rein because she knew now what they wanted, and it wasn't her.

"I don't know who you're talking about," she wheezed.

The blade pressed into her skin. Terror threatened to crowd out her control and Kirra whimpered just as the hooded man pulled her head away from the blade with a look of scorn at his companion.

He turned those icy eyes back to her. "Don't lie just when I was beginning to like you. I have little respect for liars, girl. We watched the two of you come into this house. Tell us where she is and maybe we'll let you go."

The gloved hand not pinning Kirra to the wall came into view and ran a gentle thumb across her cheek where the point of the other's blade had been. She sensed no kindness in his gesture, for when he brought his hand back into view, a wetness had stained the pad of his gloved thumb. Kirra blanched. It was her own blood.

"I'm waiting," he said.

"Wait's over." The voice came out of nowhere. It was one Kirra knew now as well as her own. "You wanna know where I am? Let her go, and maybe I'll let you find me."

Pinned as she was, Kirra couldn't have seen Tauthé if she tried. She saw only the hooded man's confounded reaction and heard a sharp intake of breath from the dark-skinned man beside her. A second later, something flew across the room and embedded itself into the wall between the two men. A kitchen knife. Jason's favorite for cutting meat, in fact.

 _Oh, great! How am I going to explain that one away?_

Kirra turned back to the hooded man just in time to catch the dawn of comprehension paint itself across his face. His expression wasn't lost on her, for in the milliseconds it took him to figure her out, Kirra had figured out her attackers as well. She had no time to make sense of it, however. Three things happened in too quick a succession for thinking.

First, Jason's favorite kitchen knife wasn't the only one to fly across the room. The second one buried itself into the dark-skinned man's extended arm, pinning him to the wall. His howl of pain was like that of a grizzly followed by the clattered of his blade onto the floor.

A third blade sliced the air, striking where the hooded man's head would have been had he not ducked a hairsbreadth lower. It impaled the wall a mere two inches above Kirra's head, but it was his instinctive move that left her mesmerized. Tauthé had no intention of impaling her. He was the only one in trouble now that his "brother" out of the fight and it showed in the frantic look on his face.

Personal safety and a stealthy sense of battle had him ducking down and taking a step back just before a fourth blade impacted the wall to his right. The only problem with this well-honed move was that it gave Kirra her chance. She pushed against his chest both hands, knocking him off balance and sending him careening into an end table where Alcmene kept a few potted plants and a wooden fox carving that Hercules had made as a youngster.

Forget the knives in the wall. How was she going to explain the carving's broken tale? Anger at the thought of the mess she was about to leave in Alcmene's home led Kirra to give the hooded man one final blow. She had no chance before to give his groin her knee, so she gave it her foot. His bronzed skin paled upon impact and he curled into the fetal position.

Almost a year ago, on the road between Attilas and Corinth, Kirra had skeptically questioned Iolaus on this move. "I'm sure it will hurt," she had said, "but I have trouble believing it will completely incapacitate a man."

"Trust me," Iolaus had said with a knowing grin. "If you get him just right, it'll stop him in his tracks every time."

If Hercules hadn't agreed with an emphasis on the word _every_ in the phrase 'every time,'Kirra wouldn't have believed him. She had proved Iolaus's tactic to herself months ago with one of Nikolos's soldiers. Still, the knowledge that she had within her the ability to incapacity such a strong man was something to marvel over.

Doing so for long would have been to her detriment, however, especially when there was a bear of a man close enough to reach his good arm around and take hold of her. Kirra hadn't the opportunity to put her hair up into its usual knot when she awoke, nor to dodge him. His fingers found purchase in a good chunk of curls dangling about her shoulders. She cried out, terrified at the prospect of not escaping the still-writhing hooded man. She jabbed with her elbow into his bearlike companion, but impacting with his hipbone only had the effect of causing herself a ping of pain.

She might have dangled forever from the end of that meaty hand, left to the mercy of the blue-eyed one once he had the strength to regain his feet, had Tauthé not appeared from the air like an apparition and jabbed the end of a broom into his midriff. With a heavy expel of breath, the dark-skinned man released Kirra and not long after, Tauthé scooped up his fallen blade and took Kirra by the arm.

"Come on! Let's go!"

She expelled a cry and pulled in a huff of breath. The next thing Kirra knew, she and Tauthé were leaving the supposed safety of Alcmene's home the same way they came in—through the back door. Kirra could do nothing but follow and ignore the strength of Tauthé's grip on her arm. There were other pains more telling, like the one around her throat, the back of her head and where her hair had nearly torn from her scalp.

Through Alcmene's backyard garden they weaved, whispering past tall tomato plants held in place by carefully crafted stakes Jason had driven into the ground months before. That wasn't all they moved past. On the ground, just on the other side of Alcmene's garden were two unconscious (maybe dead) but heavily armed men. The very ones she had noted dressed in the colorful garb the day before in Corinth just before all insanity and a red-haired demon broke loose. Their intricately carved spears had been tossed to the opposite side of the garden.

No time for speculation, though. Tauthé had spirited them away into the woods behind Alcmene's house. "Keep low," Tauthé said over her shoulder. "Follow my movements and pick up your skirts."

Kirra had spent many hours in these woods, exploring and learning the lay of the land while she sang and wrote down the lyrics she came up with in her head. She knew this place like the back of her hand. But not this day. The dream had befuddled her mind from the moment she awoke. Finding herself standing in the path of two beastly strangers, and in Alcmene's own house no less, had only perplexed her more. How was she expected to know one tree from the other in a flight to stay alive, let alone follow the stealthy movements of a girl who had adapted to the skulking life of a slave?

Though not as agile as Tauthé, Kirra did her best to match the girl's crouched run. Hard to do with her skirts bunched around her knees, but she managed. Around boulders that seemingly grew from the detritus of dead leaves, over exposed tree roots, and under the thinning foliage of oak and pine, the two of them ran. Kirra couldn't say how it happened or if it was anything Tauthé did, but their bare feet hardly made a sound (apparently, neither one of them had time to don sandals in the bustle of this particular morning). Perhaps it was the sponginess of the ground coupled with their bare feet that absorbed their sound. Whatever the reason, they managed to outpace their pursuers long enough to find a hiding place.

As soon as they reached the thickest knot of trees, Tauthé crawled over the felling of a long dead tree. Kirra followed. Moss and lichen covered the old bark making it slick with the dampness of the early morning.

"Get down," Tauthé whispered, "and press yourself against it. Don't move a muscle and try not to breathe."

Kirra could only do as told, even though reason told her to laugh at that statement. She waited in the interminable seconds as Tauthé covered her sparsely with leaves. Tauthé then followed suit with herself. Not a minute later, two figures waded into view, their movements no less stealthy than Tauthé's own.

The hooded man and his bearlike brother. Both seemed to have recovered well enough from their injuries to keep up the pursuit. Not moving a muscle was easy even if she ached in every one of them. But not breathing? Kirra found that rather difficult once the two came to stop just yards away. Remaining crouched near a copse of trees, both of them scanned the woods, looking for any sign of them for so long a time Kirra thought her lungs would explode. Their eyes skirted overtop of them as if they weren't even there. Still, she felt the hooded man's icy eyes like poisonous darts in her flesh. He knew she was there. She could sense it in him, and in the seconds that she watched him, his tense body relaxed to the point that his hands dangled between his knees.

"Why do you stop?" the dark one rasped.

"Because they're gone."

"They are here," he hissed. "I smell them."

The very thought made Kirra shiver inside.

"So what if they are? What good does it do to hunt them down like animals? In case you've forgotten, she's your—"

The bear pelt nearly came flying from his shoulders when the taller of the two pulled the hooded man to his feet by the collar of his wolf's head cowl. "It is you who seems to have forgotten _who_ she is."

"I haven't, _brother,_ " the hooded man said, looking up into the other one's black eyes and prying his thick fist from his clothing. "But I think you've forgotten who _I_ am."

Kirra could have sworn she heard a snarl in his last few words, but whatever he did, the hooded man managed to demoralize the pent up rage of the bigger man. If he weren't so tall, he might have physically diminished in size. He wore a penitence heavier than the belt pelt on his shoulders. She couldn't put a finger on quite what she was seeing, but it wasn't the penitence of a lesser man. The two were equals. She had sensed it from the beginning. Still, the taller of the two lowered his eyes and nodded.

"Forgive me."

The hooded man patted the bigger man's arm. "There's nothing to forgive."

What had she just witnessed? Try though she might, Kirra no longer saw her pursuers. She saw friends stuck in a struggle no different from her and Tauthé's. It didn't still her fear of them, though. The dark-skinned man had wanted to cause her harm. He would have killed her if he could. He would have slid his blade across her throat without a second thought if she refused to give him the answers he wanted. She had no doubt of that. And his blue-eyed companion was no less deadly. His hand on her throat had meant business whether he'd been impressed with her ability to defend herself or not. Even now, as he placated his friend, his eyes searched the surrounding woods, his gaze seemingly penetrating through trees and shrubs. He knew they were close. How close was hard to say.

"Go," the hooded man finally said, pulling his gaze away from his surroundings and raising his chin northward. "Give her space. We'll not find her like this."

The dark-skinned man obeyed and trudged his heavy feet through dead leaves. They made more noise leaving than they did coming. They knew it, too. Their movements were deliberate across the expanse of the forest.

Kirra watched them go, pulling on the shallowest of breaths and praying to any of the decent gods up there on Olympus to give her strength. In a few moments, they would be safe and alive, having made it through another brush with death since the sun had reached the midday sky the day before. This was way more adventure than she had wanted from the start of her journey back to Endor, and what was worse, she hadn't gotten one step farther than when she set out.

And now this?

The big man disappeared into the thickness of the forest. A few more feet and the hooded man's measured strides would take him out of her view, as well. She stilled herself to take in a lung full of air, but steps away from disappearing behind his companion, the hooded man stopped. His wolf's head cowl pivoted and the morning sun caught his face full on, highlighting his scar and the dark tattoo that covered it.

That wasn't what froze the air in Kirra's lungs.

The morning sun glinted off blue eyes the color of a cloudless sky. Blue eyes that found their way to her without so much as a struggle. He wasn't just looking straight at her. He was looking her right in the eyes. Though he could have called his friend back or produced a weapon of his own, he didn't. He simply stood there for a second or two, one corner of his mouth raised in a grin. Then he turned and vanished behind a tree.

* * *

 **There are ten chapters to Book One. I plan to release them successively over the next week or two. But for now, please leave a review and tell me how you enjoyed Chapter Two.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

Iolaus's sat upright gasping as if he'd run a mile.

That wasn't too far from the truth. He and Hercules had spent the last two days in a race between Attica and Athens to discover the culprit behind the murder of a prominent philosopher. Who knew an academic of that ilk could have so many enemies, eh?

Now that he thought about it, it kind of made sense. The man had some mighty wild ideas on Athens' government, going so far as to question the king's morals. Iolaus knew from his experience traveling and working with Hercules, when a man goes against the status quo, he tends to find a target on his back.

All the same, the whole adventure turned out to be a right good mystery, with all the spills and chills of a bard's tale. Iolaus might have better enjoyed it's mundane ending had he been sitting in a comfortable tavern with his legs propped up, a beauty at his side, and a mug of sweet ale in his hand while listening to a bard well-honed in his craft tell the tale. For all the intrigue they had uncovered, turned out the philosopher had been murdered by none other than a jealous romantic rival. The old guy had been famous for more than dressing in white robes. He was surprisingly just as famous between the sheets.

Iolaus would have chuckled at the thought had he not awoken in a cold sweat. He quite remembered being in the land of sweet dreams—the gentle sound of harp strings, the tranquil lapping of water, and the tantalizing sensation of fingers on his bare skin. Someone had been plucking away at his own strings, and not just the ones of the heart. But something about that tranquil setting had changed enough to set his heart racing in a manner that had nothing to do with the sweet aspect of his dream. Trouble was, he couldn't remember a thing about it.

Dreams are supposed to fade, leaving only tidbits in your mind like crumbs after a meal fit only for you to stew over. Dreams weren't supposed to sink like a stone in a pond with no memory of them at all save for a blank space. He hadn't even an inkling. Just hands on his flesh and _boom,_ he was awake, his heart racing.

Dreams…blasted things!

"Iolaus?"

Had there been a roof, Iolaus would have hit it.

"Tartarus! Herc! What are you trying to do? Kill me?"

Hercules sat up on his bedroll, looking as refreshed as one who had spent the night on Mount Olympus itself. Iolaus's jumpy reaction had him breaking into a smile.

"It would take more than a good scare to kill you, Iolaus."

Iolaus huffed. "According to my track record, all it would take is an Amazon with a knife and a She-Demon with a sweet song."

Hercules softly chuckled but soon sobered at the recollection of memories he'd just as soon forget. Hard to do when you have the pictographic memory of an Olympian. For now, he'd rather concern himself with the terrified expression he'd seen on Iolaus's face the second he opened his eyes.

"Bad dreams again?"

Quick to bury a problem until he really had to deal with it, Iolaus shrugged it off and jumped to his feet to clear out his side of the campfire. "Ehhh, nothing a good breakfast couldn't fix." He looked up at Hercules with a wicked grin. "And maybe a handmaiden or two."

Hercules shook his head, both at Iolaus's antics and at the haphazard way he rolled a bedroll. Whatever stuck to it went with it. He'd simply shake it out the next night much as he had his fretful dream.

"Was it the same as last night?" Hercules asked as he rolled his own bedroll and doused what was left of their smoldering campfire ash. His friend's non-answer was an answer in itself. "You know, I know someone in Thebes who specializes in dream analysis. His name is Oneiron. We could go see him."

"I thought we were going to Thebes to meet up with Jason and Alcmene."

"We are, but it doesn't mean we can't stop along the way."

Iolaus cringed and tossed his carry all over his shoulder. "What for? So he can tell me my dark dream predicts something dark in my immediate future? No thanks."

"No." There was no shortage of reproof in Hercules's expression. "You might be holding something back that you're not willing to face."

And there was no shortage of disdain in Iolaus's. "Like what?"

"I don't know. That's why we should go."

"Seriously, Herc. No thanks." Iolaus started walking in the general direction of Thebes, which was northwest.

Hercules grabbed the rest of his things and followed after Iolaus with a sigh. Talking to Iolaus about serious issues, such as his own health and well-being, was like talking to a brick wall. He was impenetrable. Better to talk of mundane issues while he hashed out an idea to trick him into meeting Oneiron. It was the only way he'd get Iolaus into the man's office.

"I can't wait to get to Thebes," Iolaus was saying. "I could do with a good bath."

"Didn't you hit the stream last night?"

Iolaus waved the thought away. "I was too tired. All that running around in Athens wore me out. We never even got to visit a good tavern, and Athens has some of the best ones."

"Well, we'll get the chance for a little R'n'R in Thebes."

"I'm looking forward to it," he said with a winsome smile.

He could almost feel the cool Thebeian air, taste its ale and admire its women from afar. Maybe the sweet part of his dream would become reality. The thought of sharing a hot bath with a beautiful woman had him smiling, at least until Hercules opened his mouth.

"Oh, and I forgot to mention, Kirra should be coming along with Jason and Alcmene. I want her to see the old homestead."

The words were barely out of Hercules's mouth when Iolaus smile dropped like that proverbial stone in its proverbial pond. "Who needs a dream analyzer when I have you."

"What? What do you mean?"

Iolaus turned, arms wide. "You've discovered the very source of my nightmares on your own."

"I hope you don't mean Kirra."

Iolaus nodded. "I read your letter to Alcmene."

"And?"

"And couldn't she have stayed tending the garden or something? Why did you invite her?"

"Because as long as she lives under my mother's roof, she's family," Hercules said, looking at Iolaus as if he'd lost his mind. "Why can't the two of you at least try to get along?"

"Hey, I do my part. It's Kirra who isn't willing to make friends."

"You pick on the poor girl relentlessly, Iolaus."

"I do not," he said, hoping to assuage his guilt though he knew he was as guilty as sin. "So what if I joke with her and call her Princess now and again. After what happened in Attilas, I have a newfound respect for her. She almost went from rags to riches all on the power of her voice. Kirra proved herself capable in a tough spot…"

"She proved herself capable in Chalcis, too…"

Iolaus slid a sideways glance at Hercules. "So I heard."

He heard plenty; from Hercules, from the boy Benjamin, and from Kirra herself. He'd even read of the tale, as told by the scribe Katrina of Katea. Kirra had nearly died; tied to a wooden post, doused in oil and set aflame. The girl was lucky to be alive, and from what Iolaus understood, Hercules wasn't the one to thank for the fact that she could still breathe the fresh air. He hadn't been the one to save her. That had been the boy, Benjamin, and the truth of it had weighed on Hercules ever since. But that wasn't his only weight.

"You think she's over it?" Iolaus asked.

"According to the letters I've received from Mother, she's doing fine since her close call in Chalcis."

"Maybe I should rephrase that. Do you think she's over _you_?"

Iolaus watched as his friend turned away, cleared his throat and breathed out heavily through his nose. It was a subject Hercules hadn't cared to discuss the few times Iolaus had broached it. He had told him only in the strictest of confidence. They were best friends, brothers of the heart, but he still felt the need to swear Iolaus to secrecy. Of course, he would keep that secret 'til his dying day and never bring it up in front of Kirra no matter how badly he might want to, but there was no one saying he couldn't bring it up in front of Hercules.

Iolaus threw up his hands and slapped them on his thighs. "Oh, come on, Herc. Who else can you talk to about it but me? You wouldn't say a thing to your mother or Jason."

"For good reason. Kirra has to live with them. The last thing she needs is to have that over her head." He pursed his lips and continued, "And to answer your question, I think Kirra has probably long since moved on. She's a strong girl. She's endured worse things than unrequited love and gotten over them just fine."

If Iolaus didn't know his friend better, he'd think he was trying to convince himself more than his best buddy.

Iolaus shrugged. "It helps that she has someone like that kid…" Iolaus snapped his fingers as if to make the name magically appear. "What was his name?"

"Benjamin?" Hercules supplied.

"Yeah, that's him!" Iolaus watched Hercules cringe. "Hey, you gotta let go some time, Herc. She's gotta face life on her own and she seems to genuinely like the kid. Didn't you say they knew each other from her home village?"

"Yeah, but I don't know if I trust him."

Iolaus laughed and bopped his friend on the arm. "Spoken like a true father."

Hercules smiled in agreement, but Iolaus saw something painful in it, too. He'd broken the girl's heart. That was evident enough in her bearing the morning the three of them left. She had even looked broken. At the time, Iolaus hadn't known anything about the conversation she and Hercules had under the stars. He'd chuffed her lightly under the chin and said, "Cheer up, Princess. Life's not _that_ bad."

For him, it hadn't been. He had reacquainted with a side of his family he thought he'd lost. Kirra, on the other hand, had probably felt as if she'd lost more than she'd gained. He remembered the way she turned her head away from his touch and walked back into Alcmene's house without a word of goodbye. He'd felt like an insensitive jerk, but he wasn't about to apologize, not when she was in such a mood. Then, several days later, after he and Hercules had helped to induct the boy into the Academy program, Hercules told him everything. Only then did he wish he'd taken the time to apologize to the girl.

"If there was anyone I'd trust to do right by Kirra…" Hercules said, pulling Iolaus from his thoughts and his own job of analyzing his buddy's feelings.

"Who? Falafel?"

Had Hercules been eating, he would have choked on his food. He choked anyway and looked at Iolaus as if a toad were crawling out of his forehead. "No. I mean you."

Iolaus's jaw came unhinged. He thought it might have actually fallen off and landed on the leaf-strewn grown until it moved and words came out. "Hercules! You can't be serious. She's jailbait, remember?" he said, pointing an accusing finger at his friend.

"She's nineteen now, well on her way to twenty and long past being jailbait. Maybe, by now, she's forgotten about the spying incident that night outside Attilas."

"I was not spying! How many times do I have to say it was an accident?" An image flashed in Iolaus's mind of a bare wet back glistening in the moonlight and he quickly pushed it back into its hole.

"She's still a young woman, Iolaus. Who knows? Maybe Kirra could be susceptible to those old hunter's charms."

Iolaus narrowed his eyes at the hint of humor registering on his friend's countenance. "I take it back, Herc. Kirra isn't the source of my nightmares. You are."

Hercules laughed and patted his friend on the back. "I'm just joking. Kirra is no more interested in you than she would be Typhon, _or_ Falafel."

"I would hope so. I'm more like her uncle."

"Or an annoying big brother."

"Yeah. Besides, I happen to prefer women, _experienced_ women, over girls."

"Good," Hercules said with a nod. His laughter had gone. It lingered in the upturn of his lips, but there was a glint in his eyes sharper than a sword. "Because if you ever lay a hand on her that way, I'll break every one of your fingers."

Iolaus came to stop even as Hercules kept walking. He hoped that too was just a joke, but something told him if he ever had an inkling of an interesting in Kirra—which he wouldn't; why would he?—Hercules would, in fact, make good on that promise.

Picking up his pace, he did his best to match strides with Hercules. "You and your jokes are going to be the death of me, Herc."

"I doubt it," Herc said and threw an arm about his buddy's shoulder. "I've no doubt you will live a long and eventful life surrounded by a bevy of beauties, Iolaus. You're too ornery to die."

* * *

"Are you okay, Kirra?"

Tauthé had asked the question moments before while checking her over for any injuries, the white markings on her forehead bunching together in concern. Kirra hadn't the wherewithal to answer right away. She was barefoot, cold, and damn it all to Tartarus, she was hungry.

She and Tauthé had long since risen from their hiding place at the foot of the dead tree. They traversed the backwoods behind Alcmene's house, going in no particular direction. They simply went from hiding place to hiding place, keeping ever on the move until Tauthé sensed they were no longer pursued. They'd eventually fetched up in the shadow of another boulder that seemed to have grown from the ground, but it was a familiar boulder. Kirra finally had her bearings. They weren't too far from the pond. Another minute or two of walking in an easterly direction would bring them there. She and Benny had sat and talked alongside its banks on his last night here.

Never had she thought this stretch of woods could become a place of fear. Darkness on such a bright morning threatened to crowd in from all sides. Every tree had become menacing. Every crack of a branch, every scuttle of leaves, every bird tweet had become a warning sound. Around every boulder and tree was the chance that someone might be lurking. This place had ceased to be her home. Kirra had never wanted her mother so much in all her life and it made her feel like a two-year-old.

" _Kirra?"_

Tauthé's insistence pulled her back to the present. "I apologize," she whispered in return. "I'm fine."

"Not to my eyes," Tauthé said. Her frown spoke of both fury and guilt. She turned Kirra's head to the side. "The big one cut your cheek and the other left a mark on your neck."

"I'll survive." Kirra gave a lifeless laugh. "I've survived worse."

"It's not funny, Kirra."

"I know," she answered, her false smile waning.

"You were almost killed."

This time she shook her head. "No, I don't think so."

"How could you say that? One had you by the neck. The other would have cut you in two if he could have." Tauthé clenched a fist. "Oh, if I had only had my knives! Both of them would have known what it is to go from a man to a woman in seconds."

Her laugh before might have been fake, but this one was genuine. Kirra had to hold a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing so loud it would have ruffled the feathers of birds for miles around. Even so, her belly ached at the image of Tauthé brandishing her knives in such a fashion. Her laughter was almost manic, but it was enough to pull the resolute frown from Tauthé's face and turn it into a smile. Before long, she was laughing quietly alongside Kirra.

Kirra got control of herself. "I wish you'd had your knives, too. But you made do."

"I didn't do well enough." Tauthé's guilty frown had returned. "I couldn't get us both out in time."

"What do you mean?"

"I heard them coming up the roof."

Kirra sat forward. "They came in through my bedroom window?"

Tauthé nodded regretfully. "While you were asleep. I hid under the bed."

"How did I not hear them?"

"You must have heard something. You woke up. I tried calling to you before you walked out, but I guess you didn't hear me. That's when I decided to improvise. Sorry it took me so long to come up with something."

Though she knew they shouldn't linger for long, Kirra allowed for a few minutes to think back. Her bedroom window had been opened when she awoke, the curtains fluttering in the morning breeze. She distinctly remembered closing them and setting the latch that kept them shut. Her thought had been if someone were to break in during the night, they'd come in from below and she and Tauthé would have time to escape through the bedroom window. How long had the two of them skulked about her room as she slept? What was worse, two men had entered her bedroom window, one of which had a hulking body like a bear, and neither one of them made a single sound to wake her. They might have stood over her sleeping form and she would never have known it. The thought sent shivers down her spine.

But that wasn't all that occurred to her. "Wait a minute. If you were hiding under the bed when I left, how did you get downstairs? How did you get to the knives, for that matter? You would have had to get around that bear of a man to do so."

Tauthé shrugged her shoulders, looking abashed. "I don't know. I've always been good at hiding. There have been times when I was able to sneak by Lady Shamshi unseen. I'd taken to hiding more often once she married Nergal. Though, it got me in trouble more than I care to admit…"

The past cast a shadow on Tauthé's face. Kirra chastised herself for bringing it up. So the girl had a special skill. Not everyone could be as mundane as herself, with little skill beyond getting into scrapes she had no idea how to get out of. Best to leave the past where it belonged, for both of them.

Kirra patted her knee. "Doesn't matter now."

"You're right. At least we got out again with our hides intact."

Kirra couldn't help but stare out into the easy hiding places the forest afforded. "For now…"

"Right again. We should keep moving."

Tauthé squirmed in the dress she wore. Poor girl, she was still clothed in one of Kirra's dresses and just as barefoot. There would be no going back for her slave's outfit now. The comfort of Alcmene's home was now a faraway dream. At least she still had the gold bands in her braids and the golden armbands on her arms. They might be worth something if they were hungry enough. Kirra hated thinking it, but there it was.

Tauthé came to a crouch, facing eastward, and Kirra lightly took her arm.

"Wrong way if we're trying to get to Thebes."

She hadn't forgotten Hercules and her need to warn him of Hera's plans. Current events had temporarily pushed her mission to the side. It would take at least a day to make their way on foot, even longer if they had to make the journey with a light step.

"Right yet again. You lead."

"No, you lead. I'd rather steer while matching your movements."

Tauthé nodded. "Good idea." She moved to turn westward but halted, worry etched into her countenance. "Who could those men have been? Could they have been commissioned by Nergal to find me?"

"I don't believe so. Did you not notice the two men with spears right outside Alcmene's garden?"

Tauthé nodded. She would have known the armed soldiers of Lady Shamshi's house anywhere. "It means Nergal is still out there somewhere, looking for me. And that flaming-haired creature is still out there, too? Now we have those two men tracking our movements? We're outnumbered, Kirra. How are we going to make it Thebes and find my father with so many against us?"

Kirra had been thinking the same thing. However, her biggest concern (aside from helping Tauthé), was finding and warning Hercules. For all she knew, she was already too late. Alcmene and Jason, having traveled by wagon, would likely already have arrived in Thebes. Who knew where Hercules and Iolaus were in their trek across Greece? Hera had put her revenge into motion the day before, which meant Kirra was sorely late to the game. It would be nice to have the help of one who called himself "the king of thieves." Nevertheless, they did have one thing working in their favor, however strange it might seem considering what had just taken place.

"I don't believe we're as outnumber as you think."

Tauthé threw her a look that said 'you're nuts' without actually saying it. "From the moment I saw you in the temple, I thought of you as a highly intelligent girl." She smirked if somewhat humorously. "Now, I'm starting to wonder."

"Funny," Kirra said with a smirk of her own. "But I have my reasons and if we have a moment, I'll tell you what they are."

Tauthé sighed. "I haven't felt their presence in a while. Go ahead."

"My theory rests on those two soldiers of your Lady Shamshi."

"She's not my lady anymore."

"Besides the point. If the other two came through my bedroom window as you say, then they must have been the ones to…" They hadn't had the time let alone the heart to stop and see to the soldier's well being. Whether they were dead or merely unconscious had been impossible to ascertain at a quick glance. She finished with, "…to incapacitate them."

"So what."

"Don't you understand what that means?" Kirra touched the tender spot on her neck where _his_ thumb had dug in. "The blue-eyed one, the one who held me against the wall; he didn't want me to scream because he said I might alert 'the neighbors.' Alcmene has no neighbors. Not for miles. After seeing the soldiers, I made the connection. Nergal and his men must have been close, and they knew that. They must have been trying to get to you before the soldiers did."

"How does that not make us outnumbered?"

"I'm leaning on the side of hope, Tauthé. What if they were trying to protect you?"

"By _killing_ you?"

"Granted, they did seem rather murderous, especially the big man, but the blue-eyed one promised no harm would come to me if I simply told them where you were. Not that I would have, of course, but I don't think we were in any danger."

Tauthé pointed to the cut on her cheek. "You're willing to bet your life on that?"

"Well, no," she said contritely, touching that painful spot. "But you didn't see the way he looked at me when he realized you were there to defend me. I think they must have had it in their heads that I had kidnapped you or something. You're what made it so easy for me to defend myself. In fact, he seemed rather afraid at the prospect of having to defend himself against you. I might not have gotten away if he had any desire to harm you."

Tauthé sat back on her haunches. "I don't know. It sounds too farfetched to lean all my hopes on it."

"It's not my only proof. You had to have seen the way he looked right at us before he left." Kirra remembered the knowing grin he gave her. "He knew we were there. He could have alerted the other one, but he didn't. It's like he said. He was giving us space before they found us again. Maybe he wanted to give us this chance to realize they aren't really a threat."

"Maybe…but it still doesn't tell us who they are or what they want."

"Not, but—"

"But it does make me wonder…"

"About what?"

"Back in Babylonia, some of the slave girls, the ones kept as concubines, sometimes fell in love with the men who kept them captive. Some of the other women had a name for it, as if it were some sort of disease or a kind of possession." Tauthé cast Kirra a speculative look. "Are you sure you're not doing the same thing?"

"I don't get your meaning."

" _The blue-eyed one,"_ she said, in a humorous imitation of Kirra's voice, which she then followed up with a giggle.

Kirra huffed even as she struggled not to smile. Still, she felt the need to defend herself. "He was right in my face. What else about him do you think I might have remembered?"

"Maybe his hands around your throat."

"How about my foot in his groin? I remember that with perfect clarity."

"You did get him good there," Tauthé said. "He walked funny after."

They both laughed together, albeit quietly. Kirra liked it. They hadn't known each other a full day yet, and it was as if they had become sisters laughing together even at the worst of times. And ribbing each other, as Kirra was to find out a moment later.

"It's probably a good thing you weren't taken by possession like the concubines in Babylonia. Not when you have someone who loves you like Benjamin."

Kirra stiffened. "How do you know about Benjamin?"

Tauthé rummaged in the pockets of her dress. No, Kirra's dress; the dress she'd worn the day before and which she had also given to Tauthé to wear. Oh no, she thought. Kirra's eyes widened. Benjamin's letter. As soon as she thought it, Tauthé produced the letter that Kirra had folded and stuffed into that very pocket. Full was it with words of love and things best not mentioned aloud.

"I'm sorry," Tauthé said when she noticed Kirra's flaming cheeks. "I was reading it just before I heard what alerted me to those two beasts coming in through the window."

Kirra dropped her face in her hands. "Oh, gods…"

"Don't be embarrassed," Tauthé said. "At least you have someone who loves you."

"I think it's more lust than love."

Kirra couldn't have seen Tauthé's grin with her hands covering her eyes. She could, however, hear the laughter in her voice. "Because he says he wants to cover your breasts with his kisses?"

"Oh, stop it," Kirra said, giving Tauthé a light shove, who in turn giggled like a besotted teenage girl. And that's all they were, of course. Or, at least, that's all they should have been. Teenage girls who giggled about cute boys. But neither of their lives had been as simple as that. Like a fallen tree, one thing or another, one person or another, had cut across and blocked the path their lives had been following.

Tauthé opened her mouth to speak as though ready to tell the tale which would prove Kirra's thoughts true when a rustle of leaves brought their giggles to a quick close. It might have been just a wild animal—a snake pouncing on a rodent—but it was enough to raise the hairs on the back of both their necks.

"Which direction did you say for Thebes?"

Kirra pointed west. "That way. If we stick close to the road, we should be able to find our way there by tomorrow afternoon at the latest."

Tauthé took one more cautious glance behind them. "Then we'd better get moving."

"Tauthé," Kirra said, bringing the girl to a halt. When Tauthé looked back, Kirra smiled. "Thank you for coming to my defense."

Tauthé took Kirra's hand and squeezed it gently. "You're welcome, but I owed you. No need to thank me."

Kirra couldn't help but think what their lives might have been had they met in a different setting. Had Hiram never appeared in her and Mother's life, had she and Tauthé grew up together, had their lives been different, would they still have this connection? Would they share the same camaraderie?

She thought about how quick the hooded man had been to forgive his companion. He said something similar to the dark-skinned man. _There's nothing to forgive._ It solidified in Kirra's mind that there was nothing to fear from them, nothing but the fear of delay. If those two caught up to them, hindered their forward movement in any way, she might not make it to Thebes in time to warn Hercules. And it wasn't just Hercules she worried about. There was Alcmene and Jason. Hera hated Alcmene as fervently as she hated Hercules. Kirra had to get Thebes. Now that her duty to get home to Mother had been taken off the table, getting to Thebes had become her most important mission.

So, when Tauthé lifted her skirts and started west at a barefoot crouch, Kirra didn't hesitate to follow suit. Had she been able to sense the eyes that watched her and Tauthé's retreating backs, she might have picked up her pace.


	4. Chapter 4

**Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

A wooden sword.

Father had made one for him once from tree branches tied together with twine. He'd even wrapped the hilt of his faux sword with straps of leather and shaved the sides of the "blade" to make it appear as real as possible. Of course, it had no sharp edge nor was there a point to this "blade." Father made a toy, a plaything for when his son was alone and had nothing to do but fight imaginary monsters.

The one he currently held in his hand was no better than what Father had made by hand. Cut and shaped into a far better replica of the real thing, but it was still just a wooden sword. He could do a much better job of beating the young man pitted against him with his bare hands than he could with this fake sword. He was of a mind to toss it just as he had the one Father made him the day he met Kirra. But he would follow through and do as he had been instructed. For years, following instructions was all Benjamin had known.

"Come on, Toad Face! Show me what you've got."

His opponent's name was Otis. He was maybe a year or two older than him, blonde hair, ruddy-faced, and chubby around the middle, but he was in the top of his class for swordplay. He bested everybody he came into contact with. Every new student that walked through the Academy's doors found a reason to hate Otis and not just because he was built like a satyr and could outfight, outdistance, and outdo anyone else in just about every task the Academy had to offer. The young man was arrogant, spiteful, and worst of all he was a bully. Like Hiram. Like Upis. Like King Nikolos.

Otis might have bested every new student this season, but Benjamin wasn't everybody. He'd had his fill of bullies.

Until today, he had yet to spar with Otis. He observed, though. For every match the instructor scheduled, Benjamin made sure he attended. To observe meant to learn. It was how he'd succeeded in Chalcis and rose in the ranks. The more he observed the more he learned. As was the case with his hardnosed commander.

Time and observation taught Benjamin that the more Upis's old wounds pained him the meaner he was. So, he'd used his knowledge of herbology to whip together a tonic which would ease Upis's pain, which in turn spared him the brunt of his commander's cruelty. It wasn't a cure-all, but it did give him an advantage over the other enlisted men. He'd done the same with Nikolos. He'd observed his king, though not to find something he could use to his advantage. He watched and he learned the king's movements, his favorite haunts, his likes and dislikes, what turned his good days into bad days, what he expected out of his soldiers and what he despised. Individuals like Nikolos merited observation if only to keep out of their line of sight and avoid their attention.

Not so with Otis. Give him a good ten years and a few devastating life lessons, and Otis _might_ move up to the level of tyrant Nikolos once claimed, but for now, he was nothing more than a bully. Still, Benjamin observed him, particularly on the sparring field. He watched to learn his moves, his tactics, to see what garnered him the upper hand in every fight, but not because he wanted to fight like him. Benjamin wanted to best him.

Otis began every fight—on the sparring field and off— with taunts and insults. When an instructor bade him to watch his tongue, he let his size do the intimidating. Otis began his special intimidation treatment of newcomers early, long before the scheduled sparring matches. Benjamin was well aware of all the names Otis had for him. Toad Face was one of many.

Funny that one who the known world thought of as hero had the nerve to believe this place was a bastion of hope and inspiration, where a young man could grow into a great man. He clearly had never met Otis. Insults and intimidation were the opposite of hope and inspiration, but if there was one thing Benjamin had learned in the months since he'd come to the Academy, it was that inspiration to become a great man could be drawn from the unlikeliest of places. For Benjamin, his inspiration came from Otis's poor fighting technique. In Otis, Benjamin would pour all of his focus to become "a great man."

In Chalcis, he learned how to fight from some of Nikolos's best soldiers—hand-to-hand and with the sword. He admitted he wasn't the best of his regiment, and even now, he still had a lot to learn, but against Otis, he was a master. Otis just didn't know it yet.

The problem didn't lie in his opponent's intimidation tactics; Otis simply never put thought into his methods. He approached sword fighting the same as he did his day to day to interactions with other students—he went on the attack. Sure, he parried and deflected well, his stance was always on point, but when it came time to deliver the deathblow, he never failed lunge or raise his sword high in the air. He was predictable and he left himself open every time. Anyone of these newcomers could have bested him if they had just paid attention. The only reason he could figure that the instructor had never corrected Otis's bad form was in the hopes that someone would eventually be smart enough to teach him a lesson. Benjamin intended to be that person.

He hated bullies worse than he hated tyrant kings. Tyrants had what it took—the skill, the personality, and the self-assurance—to take their bullying to the level of dictator. That Benjamin could respect. Otis, however, had none of those qualities.

Before stepping out onto the sparring field, Benjamin made deliberate eye contact with their instructor, a man of about fifty with graying hair. His name wasn't important. Benjamin liked very few of his instructors enough to keep their names locked in his memory. Still, he looked to this one for confirmation that his theory about Otis was correct. Most of the instructors knew Benjamin's background, where he came from and who brought him here. They knew his abilities but held him back from the physical aspect of training. They were smart enough to have observed him as he observed them. His time to stand up and be noticed in the Academy had come. The proof was in the instructor's slight nod.

 _Teach the boy a lesson,_ the nod said.

"Hey!" Otis yelled and swatted the edge of Benjamin's wooden sword with his own. "I'm talking to you, boy. Make your first move."

Benjamin said nothing, as was often his response. Keeping quiet kept Benjamin out of trouble and out of the watchful eyes of instructors who thought his sullen demeanor odd. He had his reasons for silence. The less one revealed in one's speech, the less people have to hold over one's head. He'd made the mistake of speaking one too many times in his life when he should have kept quiet.

Intentionally, Benjamin lunged and Otis did what he was exceptional at—deflecting. It was how he got the better of the newcomers. He parried and deflected their awkward attempts until their own inexperience so demoralized them it gave Otis the upper hand.

Not today.

Benjamin swung his sword in a wide, ungainly arc. Otis countered by holding his blade straight, blocking his strike. By the gods, but he was strong. The strike twanged all the way up to his elbow and nearly knocked the sword from his hand. It was the one side of Otis's fighting technique that Benjamin couldn't experience through observation. His ox-like strength and powerful strides had to be felt. Only one thing could counter such power—intellect—the one thing Otis had little of.

With a grin reminiscent of little else in his life, Benjamin gave the sword a slight twirl before catching the pommel in a tight grip and readying himself with a wide-legged stance that spoke of more than just his intellect. It spoke of his training as well.

Otis faltered in his arrogance just long enough for Benjamin to see it before he broke into a haughty laugh. "What was that little twirl, you freak? Fight me like a man!"

"Why don't you show me what you've got and we'll see who has what it takes to fight like a man."

An uneasy silence came over the sparring field. It wasn't the first time Benjamin had spoken since coming to the Academy, but it was the first time he strung an entire sentence together for everyone to hear. Everyone watching the match, newcomers and veterans alike who treated him with the same indifference they would show to a mentally retarded child, were silenced. Their disinterest in a match they presumed would go in Otis's favor changed. The very ground around them had become charged with electricity. Even Benjamin could feel it, though he couldn't say the same for Otis. Judging by his red-faced snarl, he was feeling something markedly different.

"I'll show who's more of a man!" Otis lunged at his opponent.

Benjamin could have parried, blocked his lunge with the proper technique and showed himself the better swordsman, if he were interested in showing form. But that wasn't his aim. He came to show Otis up for what he was—a roughneck marauding as a wannabe hero. Instead, Benjamin stepped out of the way and let momentum carry his opponent into the space where he'd once stood. _Predictable,_ he thought, and for good measure, swung the flat end of his blade until it made contact with a loud _SMACK_ on Otis's fleshy hind end.

Hushed silence became shocked gasps, but where there should have been a loud cry of pain, Otis ground out the pain with clenched teeth.

 _Not so predictable. Good. This fight might turn out to be interesting._

"That was for tripping Desimus yesterday," Benjamin said. He hardly knew the boy of about twelve standing on the sidelines with a look of wonder in his eyes. Otis had indeed tripped him while he carted his meal to the lunch table. Benjamin had observed the whole incident without a word of protest.

"You're gonna pay for that," Otis hissed before turning to their instructor. "That was physical contact, sir! He should be penalized!"

Benjamin didn't waste a second. Benjamin took but two steps to reach his opponent, a predatory grin twisting his handsome features, even as the instructor was clearing his throat and raising a chin. A veiled warning and Otis moved just in time to deflect Benjamin's blow, but not his forward movement. He staggered backward, holding back Benjamin's sword with everything he had.

"Never turn away from your opponent," Benjamin growled, "unless you want to die."

He pushed into Otis's off-balanced stance until he stumbled and their connection broke, but that wasn't enough for Otis. He'd never been taught a lesson in swordplay on the sparring field since he came to the Academy; now, he'd been shown up twice. He came at Benjamin with no more thought given to his attack than before. His own sword straight out, Benjamin never doubted that Otis would counter with a low jab, hoping to prod a sensitive spot and bring him down to his knees. Too bad Otis's rage was larger than his brains.

Benjamin met him halfway, swung his sword in a circling arc from left to right and found the edge of Otis's sword with his own. He barreled all of his weight into the swing, tossing Otis's sword wide and making him miss his mark. A rising excitement came from the group of onlookers, but Benjamin blocked it out and waited for Otis to pick up his sword.

"He's not playing fair, Instructor!" Otis yelled, wooden sword once again in hand.

Benjamin stomped his way. "There's no fair play in sword fighting. Only kill or be killed."

With a growl, Otis rushed forward. Their swords clacked against each other with a sound not reminiscent of a real swordfight, but you couldn't have told that to the crowd of onlookers. Wooden swords had turned to steel based solely upon the fire in each opponent's eyes, in the rigidity of their bodies, and in the strength of their arms. Wood scraped against wood. Otis gave his all and pushed Benjamin back, gaining what seemed to him the upper hand if ever so briefly. He used the slight distance between each other to swing his sword. He'd aimed perfectly. His one good move during the whole event, and Benjamin deftly avoided it by ducking.

One of the first things he learned as a fledgling soldier was not how to swing a sword, but how to dodge one. Even a relative novice could kill a trained soldier with the right move. Learning how to avoid the wild swing of a sword was the key to staying alive in battle, and Benjamin employed that training with finesse. He ducked just in time, pivoted his body, and landed a booted foot to Otis's midsection. The strike unbalanced Otis, sent him stumbling backward once again, but didn't knock him to the ground.

Benjamin wasn't happy to see him still standing, but going into this he knew he wouldn't beat Otis quickly or with brute strength. The two of them might match each other in height, but not in build. Otis had bulk and the strength of an ogre. By comparison, Benjamin was slender, and though he was broad-shouldered and had built some muscle mass since coming to the Academy, he didn't have the same strength as Otis. Still, if one were comparing apples to oranges, Otis might be a bear, but Benjamin was a tiger.

And he proved it by deflecting Otis's next wide swing by ducking under it again, waiting the seemingly interminable seconds for his momentum to peter out as well as for weight and gravity to send his sword to the ground. Benjamin then brought his foot down upon the flat edge, pulling Otis with it and into his elbow. A satisfying _pop_ sounded above the rising cheers of the crowd of young men. Otis's nose gushed with blood.

Benjamin wasn't finished.

He spun, a bit too fashionably for his own good sense, and brought the broad wooden sword (so much like the little one his father had made) into Otis's midsection. Had it been a real sword, he would have opened his belly like a ripe melon and spilled his guts all over the sparring field. Too bad his sword wasn't meant to kill.

Otis expelled a loud _oof!_ and went down to his knees. He then fell over onto his side, gasping for breath through a gaping mouth.

Benjamin leaned over him, a feral grin on his face that ate up the cheers for his victory. The pointed edge of his wooden sword pressed into Otis's neck. "Now, who's the toad, huh?"

A childish reaction. He knew it, but it felt like he'd finally won. Not against Otis. That was a given. Any idiot with a brain could have bested Otis. He felt as if he'd finally won against the one person he could never beat, the one person who'd driven him and his family from their home. Hiram of Endor. Had he been able to chug that poison down Hiram's throat years ago, Benjamin might not even be here, but today, he'd won. He'd shown a bully who was boss and there was no other high like it.

"All right, boy," the instructor said, snatching the sword from Benjamin's hand, paying little mind to the cold glare he sent him. "You won. No need to gloat."

"It's not gloating if it's true. Look at him. He's breathing like a toad that's been stepped on."

Otis wheezed and looked at Benjamin with a barely concealed hatred. "He broat my node."

"You're lucky that's all he broke, boy," the instructor said. He waved over Otis's concerned buddies who had been standing on the sidelines with anxious, white faces. "Take him to the healer to right his nose."

"Yes, sir," one of them said, throwing wary glances at Benjamin as if expecting him to attack. Benjamin kept the smile that wanted to surface to himself. For the first time since he came here, he felt on top of the world.

"Did you have to break his nose?" the instructor shook his head and asked.

His desire to smile sunk. "I cowed him, didn't I? I taught him the lesson you couldn't teach him yourself."

The instructor sighed but nodded. "Yeah, you did. So, what do you want?"

"I want his place on the sparring field. I want to teach these kids what real sword fighting is all about. It isn't about winning or being a hero. It's about staying alive."

The instructor laughed and raised his chin to something over Benjamin's shoulder. "You better think again."

Benjamin turned to see a group of admiring young faces. They had crossed the sparring field toward him, a group of about twenty or so young men ranging in ages from twelve to nineteen. Young men who'd mocked him, who didn't come to his rescue when he needed it. They were now suddenly eager to meet him and shake his hand. One of them was the boy Desimus. He stared up at Benjamin the way the lot of them had looked at Hercules when he was here.

The instructor patted Benjamin on the back. "Looks like you just became a hero, lad."

* * *

It all started about a month after he came here. His reading and writing lessons had been going well. He was learning and he was enjoying the process. It gave him an edge in other aspects of his life he had lacked before. Being able to read Kirra's letters gave him a sense of hope for the future. To express his feelings to her and have her respond to them, gave him a power he didn't know he desired. To be needed, wanted, _loved_. It had been his secret, held firmly to his heart, never to be known until the day he could declare it fervently to Kirra face to face. Or, at least, it would have been had Otis not gone through his bunk and discovered a letter to Kirra he hadn't yet sent. He'd read it aloud to everyone in class.

"Being without you has given me purpose," it read. "To become a better man, a better person than who I was in Chalcis. But only for you, Kirra. I want more for us than letter writing. I want to talk to you the way we used to. I want to see you every day. I want to hear you sing. What I want is to spend the rest of my life with you, Kirra. I love you."

Benjamin withstood every word and every laugh, even from those who had stared up at him in admiration, while Otis cooed each sentiment like a lovelorn fool. Through it all, Benjamin never said a word, but he did learn from the experience. And he made his plans.

For months, he had secretly wished to beat that bully into the ground and show everyone that he wasn't nearly as scary, or as funny, as they thought he was. He wanted to steal Otis's coveted position on the sparring field as Otis has stolen his letters. He wanted it like he'd wanted almost nothing else, just for the chance to humiliate him in front of his peers and in front of those he bullied. Now that his plans had come to fruition, Benjamin wasn't sure he wanted the unexpected burden that came with it.

He had gained the admiration of every young man who suffered under Otis's bullying, and even from those who hadn't. Before the day's sun sank into the horizon, the story of how the quiet newcomer from Chalcis had beaten the Academy's resident tyrant had spread faster than the words of his letter to Kirra. He'd become a celebrity overnight. Boys from every corner of the Academy wanted to congratulate him or thank him or shake his hand. It was more than Benjamin could handle in one day.

"What have I gotten myself into?" Benjamin asked the quiet room.

He had sought solace in the only place within Academy walls that brought him any comfort—herbology class. It was usually quiet at this time of the evening. Most students had either retired for the night or, if there were any classes ongoing this late in the day, they took place out in the field with one discipline or another. Benjamin was alone for now with nothing but the smell of herbs—some used for healing and others used for much darker purposes—to keep him company. Herbs, and his own damning thoughts.

It was all a lie. Everyone believed he fought Otis to champion some cause against bullying. They believed he fought and won for them. The ugly truth was that Benjamin had beaten Otis for his own selfish reasons. He beat Otis for revenge, to _read aloud_ in essence what Otis really was—a coward. He had another motivation, as well, one that provoked a far more deadly reaction in him than revenge. Hatred. The instructor had been right. Had they been engaged in real combat with real weapons, Otis would have suffered worse than a broken nose.

Despite his reservations about the outcome, Benjamin desperately sought a positive twist to the student's sudden, and yet abhorrent admiration of him. It might give him the opportunity to act as a trainer. Yes, he'd still be just a student himself, but the thought of becoming a trainer could only be an added bonus to his life here at the Academy, a way to fill his broken mind with more worthwhile endeavors than writing love letters that didn't see a response as often as he would like. He could turn these kids into capable warriors and lead them away from becoming the subdued soldier he had been in Chalcis, what Otis wanted to turn them into. His motives were pure. Kirra would approve. He had no doubt of that.

Still, he hadn't expected the instructor to hand such an opportunity so easily, not after he'd broken Otis's nose. Revenge and hatred sullied his pure motives like muddy water. He would never be what Kirra wanted no matter how hard he tried. She wanted a hero like Hercules and he was so far from ever being what the half-god was. Benjamin would never be perfect.

"Perfection is overrated."

Benjamin started. He'd found a dark, quiet place in the back of the room where restful-smelling herbs hung drying out on a length of twine. If anyone else occupied the class, it would have been the herbalist whom every student since the days of Hercules had affectionately called Mudwort. He was old and his voice was scratchy from secretly smoking some of what he dried, but the voice that reached him from across a room designed for mixing herbs and growing mushrooms in dark corners was not scratchy in the least. It was soft and gently lilting. More important than that, it was female.

Women and girls of all ages had fought for centuries for the right to be included in the Academy's training, but the institution still only took male applicants. There shouldn't be a woman on the premises.

Benjamin stood and saw an older woman at the head of the class. She was strangely, almost regally dressed for such a late hour, not to mention the location. She belonged in Mudwort's dusty herbology classroom like a toad belonged on a snowy mountain ledge.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

She turned and gave him such an endearing smile that Benjamin couldn't help but think of his mother. But Mother hadn't had such ice-blue eyes.

"I came to congratulate you, Benjamin. You fought well today. I was impressed."

"Good for you. Now, tell me who you are before I find an Academy guard to escort you off the premises."

The strange woman laughed as though he were confused who the true interloper was. "Such strength and masculinity for one just barely entering manhood," she said as she crossed the room, her dark skirts swaying past wooden tables with mortar and pestle, iron tincture presses, and stoppered glass containers filled with oils and alcohols. "Hard to believe a girl as intelligent as Kirra cannot see what you have to offer."

Benjamin started for the second time in as many minutes. "You know Kirra? Did she send you here?"

The woman's mouth remained in a salacious smile that was almost a grimace. "No," she said in a deeper, less flattering register. "I came of my own accord. But, Kirra and I do know of each other in a rather _informal_ way."

"I don't know what you mean. Is Kirra okay?"

He looked the woman up and down. She wasn't just regally dressed. She wore an iridescent tiara. A word hovered at the front of his mind; one he'd only recently learned how to spell—Queen.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Let's forget about me for now. I came to talk about you."

Benjamin stamped his curiosity about this woman into nothing. Only one thing concerned him. "What do you know about Kirra? I need to know if she's all right. Did something happen?"

She gave him a sympathetic look and brought her hands to his broad shoulders. "You worry far too much about Kirra, my dear boy. She isn't worrying herself about you. She's off doing what girls her age do best—meeting new people, making new friends, and sharing in grand adventures that have nothing at all to do with you."

Whether he believed this stranger or not, her words did not fail to wound. The idea that Kirra would go about her life as if he didn't exist always lived in the back of his mind. It was the stuff of his nightmares. He hated that her lack of reply to his recent letter twisted inside him like a squirming snake. He was jealous of the life she led without him and this woman seemed to know it…just like…

 _Perfection is overrated._ Those were the first words she'd said when she appeared in the room. He'd been thinking that he'd never be perfect enough for Kirra when…

Benjamin looked up at this woman who couldn't possibly know him, because he had never met her, but who seemed to know him more intimately than anyone else here did.

"That's right," she said. "Make sense of it."

Benjamin narrowed his eyes. " _What_ are you?"

Her smile grew wider. "You're getting warmer."

"You're like him. Like Hercules."

Her grip on his shoulders went from welcoming to painful. "No. _Not_ like him. I am more than Hercules will ever be."

Benjamin welcomed the pain. He felt empowered by it. Standing before him wasn't half an Olympian who strove to champion his flawed human half. This creature was all Olympian. The tiara she wore only told half her story, but Benjamin wanted to learn all of it.

She lessened her grip and continued. "As are you, Benjamin. You don't need perfection to be greater than Hercules." She ran a hand across his chest and moved around him. "Though I must say, you are perfect in your own way. Quite the handsome young man. Though," she whispered in his ear, and Benjamin shivered. "I am a woman faithful to her husband. Don't think you can work your charms on me."

When he spoke, his voice held a slight quiver. "You want something of me."

"Warmer still," she said from where she'd moved behind him.

Olympian or not, tiara or not, she was still just a woman, and only one woman had the right to rouse excitement him. Benjamin settled the fluttering his heart, pushed strength into his voice and turned to face the stranger.

When he did, all he saw were dried herbs. The air in between him and the wall they hung from crackled with electricity. He stepped backward into a wooden table. A pestle fell to the floor with a heavy thud and a jar of olive oil fell over. Benjamin righted it, but he could not right the tremor in his body. Fear began it, but something far worse fueled it.

Desire.


	5. Chapter 5

**11/23/2018 - Edited the last paragraph of this chapter.**

* * *

 **Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

In Alcmene's house, there was a small room just off the master bedroom. Three people could stand comfortably in it. Four would be pushing it. Five would be terribly uncomfortable. Six would be impossible. Kirra surmised Alcmene might have once used it for storage. It was now a sewing room. Alcmene kept all the fabric she had purchased in Corinth in that little room. She had a desk she worked upon with drawers to keep cutting instruments, spindle, needle and thread, and Jason had fashioned a window to give her natural light to work by during the day.

Kirra didn't have to surmise where Alcmene's sewing room used to be. The day she moved in, Alcmene had given up the upstairs bedroom for Kirra's use. All of the sewing accoutrements that had once been in the room went into the room next to the master bedroom. It was hard for Kirra not to feel guilty that her presence had caused her gracious host to lose her creative space. Thus, she had sacrificed much of her own time to help Alcmene in her creative endeavors.

Alcmene had always kept the door to her sewing room open during the summer months for extra light and to keep it from turning into an oven. Kirra couldn't remember if the door was open when she and Tauthé ran from their pursuers, but the back door had been. She hadn't thought of the consequences when she and Tauthé ran from the rear of the house to escape their pursuers. She doubted the two men would be kind enough close it on their way out. Not when one of them sported a knife wound and the other suffered from a foot to the groin.

The gods only knew what manner of animal might make its way into the house or the damage it could do. She didn't want to think what might happen if Alcmene were to, for whatever reason, return home before Kirra had a chance to right things. Furniture askew. Hand-made gifts damaged. Knives in the wall. Blood on the floor. Alcmene would faint dead away.

Worse was the thought of anything happening to the sewing room. She was halfway through the creation of a gown for Kirra that was of such elegant intricacy—a soft blue with open sleeves and beadwork in the bodice that crisscrossed between the breasts—that Kirra didn't feel worthy enough to wear it. She felt less worthy when she found out to which event she was to wear it. Just the thought of having been invited to a ball in the palace of the king made her feel like fainting as she had imagined Alcmene doing so. Of course, the invitation had been extended to Jason and Alcmene alone, but neither one would hear Kirra's protest that she would be fine on her own for one evening. Jason had seen to having the invitation amended.

While she hated admitting it to herself, spending a night out in the cold air with nothing but the twinkling of stars to light her way was preferable to attending a royal ball. She didn't care if King Iphicles was Hercules's brother. He was still the king. She was just a lowly nobody from Endor, fit only for freezing in the cold night air while on the run from two men who liked to dress like animals.

Speaking of those two, she and Tauthé might have made it halfway to Thebes by now if it weren't for the fear of being caught. And speaking of the king's brother, Kirra's worry for him was mounting. A full day and a half had passed since the terror that befell Corinth. Even if Hercules and Iolaus hadn't yet arrived in Thebes, they would be there soon. Whatever Hera had planned would come to fruition long before she and Tauthé could make it.

For most of the day, the two of them had followed the road to Thebes as close as they could, keeping to the thickest part of the woods and taking cover when travelers passed. Kirra saw neither hide nor hair of their pursuers throughout the day, but their presence remained as palpable as when she stood face to face with them. Tauthé felt it, too, and so kept them low and out of sight. At one point, she had even used the larger man's knife to hack a good length of fabric from the hem of both their dresses. (Make that, Kirra's dresses.) Their skirts now came up to just below the knee and their calves were exposed. She understood the point—less noise and ease of movement over uneven terrain—but it didn't lessen the chill on her legs and her bare feet.

She certainly wasn't royal ball worthy now. This was no different from the night she left Endor. She was running away when she should be standing her ground.

The stars were high in the sky, peeking through the leaves and branches above them. Frogs croaked and crickets sang and owls hooted into the night. More often than not, a rustle of dead leaves could be heard on the forest floor. A snake pouncing on a rodent again? Or worse? Maybe a jackal or a wildcat? As long as she'd lived with Alcmene, Kirra had never once seen a wolf or a bear…until today. She hadn't been afraid of their like before and she wasn't going to be afraid of them now. Not when there were worse creatures in the world from which to flee.

Like Hera.

Crouched behind a wide lichen-covered tree that was damp to the touch with early morning dew, Kirra stood and walked a few paces from it. "Tauthe," she said in a voice much louder than made her comfortable, but she braved it anyway.

The girl looked over her shoulder at Kirra as though she had lost her mind. She brought a finger up to her lips. "Shhh."

"No. I'm done skulking. We'll never make it to Thebes at this rate. We're not even halfway there."

"Get back over here," Tauthé hissed between clenched teeth.

Kirra shook her head. "If we get out on the open road now, we might make it by tomorrow evening. But like this, Herc—"

She never had the chance to tell Tauthé about Hercules. Not that a slave girl from Babylonia would know anything about him to begin with, and she wasn't going to get the chance to tell her anything of him out here either. Tauthé had jumped up and yanked her back into place before she could get the rest out.

She looked her hard in the eyes and pointed to something on the other side of the tree. The two had come to know each other well enough in the long and difficult hours of the day to develop a sort of shorthand communication. Seeing as how they couldn't verbally communicate as often as they might have liked, hand gestures and facial expressions had become their only link. Tauthé employed it now, jerking her chin in the same direction as her pointed finger and widening her eyes to Kirra's questioning gaze.

"Is it them?" Kirra whispered. "I'm not afraid of them. Let them come."

Every word was a lie. While the forefront of Kirra's mind might have clung to the wolf man's (for she refused to refer to him as "the blue-eyed one" ever again) sly grin and the camaraderie he clearly shared with the bigger man, the back of her mind could clearly remember his strength, the pinch of his gloved hand around her neck and the ugly hatred in the darker man's black eyes. They were more than beasts. They were killers. The cut on her cheek and the bruises on her neck were proof. If they were of a mind to, they could snuff out her and Tauthé's lives without making a sound. Still, Kirra had to get to Hercules. Bravery, feigned or not, was her only option.

But Tauthé would have none of her argument. Even in the dark, Kirra could make out the roll of her eyes. They might have bonded like sisters, but even sisters had their moments. Tauthé pulled her around to the edge of the tree and made her look. What Kirra saw made her hairs stand on end.

More than a hundred paces away, hidden by a wealth of flat leafy bushes and fuzzy, lichen-covered tree limbs, standing in the very spot they had skulked over not twenty minutes ago, were three men wearing the same kind of armor she noted both in Corinth and outside Alcmene's home. They wore thick leather chest armor overlaid with cloth in colors of blue and red. From the waist down, an armor made of heavy cloth and stitched with intricate gold designs protected the warrior's thighs. Pointed metal helmets reflected starlight, making them stand out in the dark. Their boots, however, laced all the way up to the knee, kept them quiet as they marched over the detritus of the forest floor.

One of them knelt to inspect the ground. A tracker. The other looked around as though he might have heard something, like the sound of a girl's voice in the dark. They were following them. Somehow or another, they'd tracked them, and her own loud mouth could have inadvertently drawn them their way.

Kirra turned back to Tauthé with an apology in her expression. "What are we going to do?"

Tauthé's expression was worse. Guilt overwrought any semblance of imminent capture. "I'm sorry, Kirra. I'd been so careful. I thought for sure I'd kept our signature to a minimum. But I guess I'm not as good as I thought."

"This isn't your fault. There has to be something we can do. A distraction of some sort."

But Tauthé wasn't listening. "I should have known better. Nergal is relentless. As long as they're tracking us, they're going to catch us. Me they'll put in shackles, but you…"

Kirra nodded. They would kill her. This she already knew, but she knew nothing of Babylonian law. For all she knew, they had no court system. Just a summary judgment and execution followed through at the whim of a madman. Where was a goddess who claimed to hold sway over love when one needed her?

 _Think, girl, think! You have to do something!_

She thought of the guard she had outwitted in the dungeons of Attilas and just as quickly dismissed the idea. These men were too far away to determine if they were susceptible to charming words, and besides, talking them down was out of the question. They were soldiers. Soldiers did what they were told like King Nikolos's soldiers had in Chalcis. She might not get the chance she had in the king's chambers to bite one of them on the leg hard enough to draw blood. They had only three choices: fight, run or hide.

They had no weapon save for the dark-skinned man's blade and two against three was bad odds. If they were as good at tracking as they seemed to be, hiding was pointless. Running was worse. She braved a look around the tree. They were getting closer; close enough for Kirra to hear their whispered conversations.

Frustrated, Kirra turned back to Tauthé and hissed, "If we could just find some way to hide our tracks."

With an intake of air, Tauthé wrapped her arms around Kirra and gave her a quick hug before rising to her feet and looking up. When she had placed the palms of both her hands upon the tree's wide trunk as though she were worshipping its magnificence in the dark of night, Kirra thought the girl had lost her mind. Just when she thought Tauthé might start praying to some Babylonian nature god, she stepped onto a jutting portion of root that rose from the ground. It too was covered in due-moistened lichen, but Tauthé's feet seemed to lose shape, comingling with its bark and taking hold. She wasn't praying or worshipping. She was looking for a way to hide their tracks and her eyes were fixed upon a low branch running just over their heads.

Of course! There was no time to hide their tracks. They just had to stop making them. The only way to do that was to get off the ground and that branch might be their ticket. It was thick and could hold one, if not both of them. Kirra watched Tauthé plant her feet as high on the root of the tree as it would allow and reach for the branch with desperate fingers, but the space between her and the lichen that hung along the branch's underside was too wide. She would not reach it without scaling the side of the tree, and Kirra didn't see that happening.

The low sound of booted feet crunching through soggy leaves reached Kirra's ears. She had to chance one more look and what she saw wrenched the fear in her gut into a tight ball. The soldiers had narrowed the distance down to fifty paces and one of them was closing fast. He had drawn his sword and his attention was on their tree. Its girth was easy to hide behind, and he was surely thinking he had heard a voice earlier complaining they would never make it to Thebes.

Kirra froze. He was going to find them. They weren't going to make a getaway by the skin of their teeth this time. They had to move. They had to—

Something light, like a rock or a twig, struck Kirra's shoulder. She turned and panic rose like bile at the back of her throat, hot and burning.

Tauthé was gone!

She hadn't the presence of mind to ask the prerequisite questions. Where had she gone? Had she run away? Had she been taken? There was only the crunch beneath feet just as there had been in her dream. Not the charred skulks of a cobblestone pathway, but the crunch of dead leaves and a wet, dew-covered ground. Kirra watched the pointed edge of a sword appear from the edge of the tree. She tried to quiet her breathing, but she couldn't quiet her mind.

She knew of the Greek penalty for freeing a contracted slave but had read of worse punishments in the eastern countries for lesser crimes—blinding, the removal of one's nose or lips, hands or feet, gutting, tearing out the heart. Even as the blade took full shape before her eyes, Kirra couldn't stop the final images of her dream, the ones the subconscious always chose to bury upon waking, from coming back in ugly flashes. Bodies on the walls. Some of them had been missing limbs, eyes, heads. All of them had been gruesome; the sight of them was no less barbaric than the punishments she'd read about. The stench of blood and death filled Kirra's nose again as it had in her dream. Only this time, there was no light in the distance. There was only darkness. A darkness of Hera's making. It wasn't the death of hundreds of innocents she inhaled. It was her own.

The sword. The hilt. A hand, and then the booted foot of a soldier until an entire person stood before her. Perhaps he didn't expect anyone to be there. Perhaps he was just as scared as she was. Kirra could not have said. Everything after happened too fast to know the answer.

The moment his eyes fell upon her in the dark, he jumped, sword pointed in her direction as if she might have the ability to ripple lightning from her fingertips and reduce him to ash. Not this lowly girl from Endor. She could only scream.

It sounded like the call of a wild animal caught in the clutches of a predator. Every creature in the darkness of the forest went silent out of respect, even the frogs and crickets. After all she had experienced in her young life, from surviving the assault of her stepfather to the dungeons of Attilas to nearly burning alive at the stake in Chalcis, for Kirra to hear herself wail like dying prey and fall back onto her rear end was an insult to every battle she had ever fought.

The insult rushed up into her throat, booting the panic right out of her the second her hand landed upon the hilt of the dark-skinned man's curved blade. Kirra had no idea where Tauthe had gone, but beneath her hand was a parting gift the soldier recognized too late to react to in time. Kirra brought up the curved blade seconds before he brought down his sword, and each second of that move passed like the moon across the night sky.

Years later, she would remember the damp earth that dug beneath her fingernails when she gripped the hilt of the blade, and the strain on her arm to lift it from its prone position on the ground. More so the clanging sound of the blades as they met, loud enough to hurt her ears and reverberate up her arm. It shut the forest creatures up for good. Respect had gone. Fear was what silenced them.

Pushing with all her might to keep his sword at bay, her arms trembling with both fury and weakness, Kirra gritted the fear out of her. She forgot about Tauthé. She forgot about Hercules and her fear of the imminent danger he knew nothing of. She only knew that this man wasn't the only pair of booted feet. She could hear the approach of the other. Seconds from now, this fight would not be a matter of one sword against another. She had to stay alive, and the only way to do that was to reduce in power the one who wanted to cause her harm, and his sword was no more powerful than Hiram's fist.

Just as Iolaus taught her, Kirra thrust out her foot. She wasn't aiming for the groin this time. Her foot wouldn't have made it that far, but it found the inside of his knee just as easily. She heard a pop and the soldier's leg buckled underneath him, unbalancing him long enough to weaken what strength he put into his blade.

Kirra dug her bare feet into the earth and pushed every drop of fury into the dark-skinned man's curved blade and the soldier's sword sliced into the tree with a twang. He fell to the ground, nursing his wounded knee and moaning in pain, giving Kirra time to scurry free of the tree and its roots. She knew she had to run and find cover before the others came to aid their own, but this one would give her away. He would lead the others straight to her. Were she Hercules, she would simply knock his lights out. But she wasn't. She was a nobody from Endor.

Kirra looked down at the sword in her hands, then back at the soldier nursing his wounded knee while trying to pry his sword from the strong jaws of tree bark. She was just a nobody, but for one infinitesimal moment, Kirra could see herself driving the sword into his heart. He was Hiram holding her hands above her head and pulling up her skirts. He was King Nikolos laughing as he had her strung up onto a stake. She knew what she had to do. She stepped toward the injured soldier.

And a ripple of low laughter crept upon Kirra like fog hugging centimeters off the ground. Just like her dream. She heard a voice choked with indignant laughter. _"This is your destiny…"_

She saw the bodies on the wall. She saw the face of her mother, her skin the color of ghosts, and her eyes the pale horror of the dead. Kirra dropped the sword. It clattered to the leaf-strewn ground without a sound.

"No."

She couldn't have said whether she spoke it aloud or merely thought it. She knew only to run as fast as her feet could carry her.

There was no point in looking back. The remaining soldiers had finally gained the opposite side of the tree. If they had stopped to see to their fellow soldier's wound, it wasn't for long. Heavy footfalls followed Kirra into the thick darkness of the forest. She darted behind another tree, hoping its craggy shape and its fellow, the dark, would hide her attempt to double back. Instead, she barely avoided a reaching hand coming around the tree.

With a yip, she twisted out of his grip. She was done with trees. Darkness had to be her only friend.

 _The only hero you have is yourself._

Hercules had first said it, but it wasn't Hercules's voice she heard it in. It was Hera's and she was laughing.

She had already unbalanced the soldier and now she finished off the job by planting both hands into his chest, knocking him to the ground and darted into thick foliage. It wasn't until she'd delved farther into the night, paying no mind to the pointy flat leaves that scraped her legs or the low hanging branches and vines that threatened to scratch her skin or pull her hair, that she realized the soldier hadn't drawn his sword like the other one. Had he, he could easily have run her through. The wherewithal to wonder at the reasons why wasn't with her. She only knew she had to keep moving, she had to get to Thebes and Hercules or there would have been no point to deviating from the quest to go back home to Mother.

Kirra ran in the general direction her crazed mind could only hope was the way to Thebes, hoping she would outrun them and yet knowing she never would, not with the sound of her pursuers crashing through the forest behind her. She felt the telltale brush of fingers across her back. Breath went in and expelled from her lungs hot and ragged. Her thighs ached as though the pointed end of spears had been run through them both. Kirra cursed every idle day she spent since the events in Chalcis (and silently cursed Jason and Alcmene for indulging her laziness), for she wasn't gaining any ground. Her pace was slowing. They were getting closer. Fingertips were reaching for her shoulder, digging in, pulling. Hands in her hair, yanking, and she was going backward. She hardly had time to feel the sting to her scalp when her pursuer's momentum pushed her forward, face first into the soft ground. His weight crushed whatever cry of pain might have come from her. What she remembered was the air being forced from her lungs, a desperate desire to breathe, and the strangest sight of a loan ant up close scurrying away across a mound of leaves from this intrusion upon his nighttime commute.

A booted foot came down on top of it. Its commute had ended, and so had Kirra's.

Greedy hands twisted her forcibly around. Kirra didn't offer excuses or tried to make up a story. She knew what they wanted and there was no point in playing games. She didn't wait to see a grizzled countenance before she spat the dirt in her mouth into the soldier's bearded face.

He grimaced, yellow teeth snarling between the edges of a fuzzy black beard. His pointy metal hat didn't make him any prettier. He growled something in a language Kirra didn't understand, though she had a good idea what it was once the back of his hand made contact with her cheek.

The sting highlighted every ache in her body, even the ones on her scalp, but she suddenly saw everything clearly. Or maybe it was that dawn had finally crested. She could see the other two soldiers flanking her, their swords still in their sheaths, but with expressions no less threatening than their commander. And she saw something else. Something the three of them could not see, and something she would never forget.

In the tree above her was an animal unlike any she had ever seen before. It had a stout, furry body, bigger than the size of an average house cat, but like no cat Kirra had ever seen. Its pointed face had a streak of white fur running down the snout. Cute, fuzzy, pointed ears topped its head like a mouse. But that's where the similarities ended. Canine teeth, top and bottom, revealed themselves in a fierce snout-raising snarl; and long, curving claws, designed for ripping apart flesh, dug into the bark of the tree limb it poised itself upon.

Whatever it was, wherever it came from, it wanted blood in whatever manner it could get it.

Kirra's widening eyes must have shown her horror for the soldier looked up. She had a second or two to wonder—had they startled it from its early morning nap or was it protecting its young?—before she raised her arms to shield her face. A pained, jarring cry pierced the early morning and the weight that had been pinning her to the ground came away. Kirra peeked through her arms. The animal had sunk its teeth into the man's nose. It pulled and twisted at flesh that wasn't meant to be pulled and twisted, sending the other two into such a state of shock that Kirra decided to take the animal's interruption for what it was—a distraction.

She kicked, knocking the screaming soldier backward. He fell, his feral attacker refusing to relent. Scrambling to her feet, she ignored the blood streaming down his face, the ache in her thighs, and the other two who were too confused to know which problem was the most pressing—the fleeing girl or the animal attacking their commander. Kirra made it only a few feet before they came to their senses and divvied up the troublemakers.

An arm went around her waist, lifting her off the ground. She tried for the same move she had pulled on the hooded man and realized too late what a bad idea that was. The back of her head rammed into a metal helmet. Through a brain-jarring haze, she saw something else she would never forget.

A hooded man. Not _the_ hooded man whose cowl was in the shape of a wolf's head. Kirra might have noted those ice-blue eyes peeking out beneath the hood. This man was different. Shadows obscured his face, but not the ease of his steps upon the tree branches above or the crossbow in his hand.

He aimed. Kirra cringed. The soldier cried out.

Kirra found herself on the ground again, seeing the feathery end of an arrow protruding from the man's calf out of the corner of her eye. Two more arrows buried themselves at his feet. He stumbled backward, finally attempting to remove his sword from its scabbard.

 _What in Tartarus was going on?!_

Surely, the soldier was thinking the same thing. The attacking animal and now this other assailant! And where was Tauthé?! Kirra scrambled to her feet once again, hoping to put some distance between herself and the soldiers while at the same time wondering how the man with the crossbow had disappeared so quickly. Other thoughts came quickly to her, a pointless subconscious sadness that the dress Mother made for her years ago was now a ruination, butchered and covered in mud and leaves. But, in the coming seconds, a ruined dress and a disappointed mother were to be the least of her worries.

Dawn was creeping up the skyline. Here in the forest, it was still night. Just enough of dawn's early light had begun to give shape to the landscape, but not enough to see the thing that ran past her. It wasn't the man with the crossbow. This thing, whatever it was, was big and low to the ground. It brushed past Kirra in a black blur, grazing her calf and once again sending her sprawling belly down onto the forest floor. The hem of a cloak was not what she felt against her exposed calf. It was fur.

A growl and the screaming of the soldier behind her had Kirra twisting onto her back end. What she saw sent her scurrying backward.

A lithe, muscular body covered from head to toe in black fur launched into the air like a slow-motion arrow. It pounced onto the soldier with the precision of a blacksmith's hammer. He went down. The fur covered monster landed on him with all fours, gouging at the soldier's hand to send his sword skittering over the forest floor. His horrified screams were all Kirra could hear and she clamped her hands over her ears in an effort to shut him out, but she couldn't stop the scene from playing out before her like something out of a nightmare.

Fangs as white as its fur was black went for the soldier's exposed neck, silencing him in an instant. Kirra's blood ran cold. Down to her toes, every part of her had turned to ice. Not five minutes ago, she'd been hungry and frustrated and aching. Now, all she knew was stark cold terror. And it wasn't from the early morning temperature.

Wolf. That's what it was. Her mind had finally let her comprehend it for what it was. It paid little mind to the dead man's fellow soldier, the only one left standing several paces away. It had fixed its ice-cold gaze upon her, angling its body to face her even as the other man moved too late to protect his comrade. He raised his sword but never took one step.

Caught as she was in the wolf's mesmerizing ice-cold gaze, Kirra hardly saw what came out of her peripheral vision. A flash of orange and black. It leapt from a tree over the soldier's head as though it had been born from tree bark itself, pouncing on him and sinking in its claws. His scream matched that of his commander's several paces away from where he still fought with the cute furry animal. It wasn't cute anymore. He hadn't much of a nose left. Still, he managed to wrap one meaty hand around a furry limb and gave it a twist. The ball of fur attached to his face screeched, which loosened its grip, and the commander gave it a heavy-handed throw against a tree.

The wolf, however, never blinked. One humongous paw took a step toward her. Behind it, what could only be described as a monstrous cat silenced the screams of the second solider. Kirra's furry savior couldn't rescue her now, for the commander, his nose swollen and his face bloodied, had his sword drawn. He was the victor in their fight, standing over it as single-minded in his objective as the wolf before her. He raised his sword, intent upon burying its pointed end into the small animal's soft underbelly when…

Several things happened at once.

A breathy roar, like the sound of a howling wind through the trees, broke the sudden stillness brought on by the end of two lives and the end of a fight. For a long time to come, she would wonder if it wasn't the arrow that landed into the ground at her feet or the sight of a black bear bigger than any she had ever seen in her life that broke her from the wolf's mesmerizing spell.

The bear barreled like a tumbling boulder toward the commander, swiping him across the back with one massive paw and sending him like a paltry piece of meat into the same tree. He hit face first with a resounding _CRACK!_ , as dead as the other two. But Kirra didn't actually move until a second arrow landed into the ground between her and the wolf. Whoever the man with the crossbow was, he wasn't shooting at the wolf and he wasn't trying to warn her. That was a command.

 _MOVE! RUN!_

Kirra obeyed.

Whether it was the wolf's warning growl, the roar of the bear behind her or the last glimpse of the orange and black cat making for the same tree the man in the cloak had taken aim in, Kirra found her second wind. It came to her like a stiff breeze, filling her lungs with air and sending a burst of energy into her extremities. Her legs pumped like an Olympic runner. She didn't feel the ground under her feet, the rocks that jabbed at that tender flesh or the branches that scraped her as she ran. She just ran like her life depended upon it because it did.

A black blur darted past her. Kirra caught one quick glimpse of it in the early morning darkness of the forest through the trees. Had her eyes not already seen that black blur once, she might have wondered what it was. But she knew. The wild beating of her heart said so.

Kirra came to a screeching halt, nearly falling backward onto her butt, when the black wolf with its icy gaze came around a tree so fast its hindquarters kicked up debris. It bared its teeth, its maw still sticky with the soldier's blood and stepped toward her.

With fear pumping in her breast, Kirra saw something she never expected to see in an animal. Anger. As crazy as it sounded, even to herself, she knew anger when she saw it. She angered it when she ran. Why? What was she to it? Like a mallet driving home a nail, it came to her.

A wolf. A bear.

An animal cannot display anger, but a man can. And only one person could turn a man into an animal or make a woman breathe fire.

They weren't looking for Tauthé. They couldn't have been. All along they had wanted her, just like the flaming-haired creature in Corinth. This was Hera's doing.

"What do you want from me?!" Kirra cried to the thing that sat upon a throne on an impossibly high mountain and waged its war of jealousy.

The wolf cared little for such drama, however. It dropped its snarling snout, hid its bloody teeth. Then, as might any dog, it lowered its hind end to raise its two front paws. But it wasn't begging. The wolf was growing. The hind legs elongated. The front legs became arms that drew down at its sides. Its black fur pulled into its body like a fisherman's line and what was left was merely the semblance of a wolf. What rose on two legs was a man wearing a wolf's head cowl, and he looked nothing like the creature that had just seconds ago bared its teeth and ripped out the throat of a man intent on capturing her. The only thing that remained the same was those ice-blue eyes she had encountered in Alcmene's house less than a day ago.

It was the last thing Kirra remembered before she fell. She crumpled like a wilted flower and waited to meet the ground where there would be nothing between her and it but dead leaves and hungry little ants. But she kept falling and falling and falling…and what she heard was laughter, low and ominous.


	6. Chapter 6

**Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

Consciousness returned like the slow rise of the morning sun. First, there was nothing. No memory. No dream. Just blackness, formlessness.

Sense of touch followed as an afterthought. She moved her fingers over a surface smooth as river rock but with sharp curves and strange indentations. Sound came soon after. The creak of wooden hinges and a continuous spinning, followed by the rapid beating of her heart. She could not remember where she had been seconds before. A dim memory of trees in all directions, leaves covering a soft, dew-sprinkled ground, and the break of dawn lived at the back of her mind. They were peaceful thoughts.

So, why was her heart filled with such terror? It stalked toward her, stepping its predatory claws not upon dead leaves but upon ground as hard as the carapace of beetles. Her fingers slid over that smooth, river-rock surface until they disappeared into two gaping holes; holes that were about the same size as eye sockets.

Kirra drew back her hand with a gasp and opened her eyes to the sound of laughter overtopping the creak and spin of the wheel. She had returned to the cavern of the dead. Thank the blessed darkness that she could not see them. But she could still smell them. Their stench was just as strong as the presence of the one whose laughter filled the chamber.

Hera. "Time to wake up, Kirra."

Eyes the color of ice stared down at her, waking her memory. Similarly icy eyes, set above a snarl of bloodied fangs, flashed across her mind's eye. Kirra shook her head, both at the confusing memory and at the hand wrapped in a lacy sleeve reaching to help her to her feet.

"Get away from me," she said, forcing her leaden body to sit up and scoot away from the approaching god queen even as her leaden mind screamed at her to stop touching the skulls making up the ground.

"Come now, my dear," Hera said. "I only want to help you."

Kirra got to her feet too quickly. The room spun. She had nothing to hold onto but her sanity, and even that seemed to be waning. Still, she shrugged away from Hera's reaching hand, running the palms of her death-stained hands upon a dress that for one mind-bending moment she thought would be streaked with mud and hacked off mid-length. But it was the same dress she had worn when she'd gone to bed, intact and as clean as the moment she put it on. And hadn't she given one of her dresses to someone else? Someone who…?

Her mind was an empty hole. Pieces of what she thought was reality were more like fading dreams. She could find nothing resembling memory in that empty hole.

Kirra looked at the woman in the dress made of a fabric that had been weaved somewhere in the heights of Mount Olympus. "Where am I?"

"The same place you were a moment ago."

"No, I was with someone. A girl. We were… Her name was…" Her mind reached, but all she came up with was a confusing jumble of leaves and braided hair and the smell of wet earth.

Hera smiled. "This place can do funny things to a mortal's mind. Or so I've been told."

Try as she might to pull from the depths of memory any trace of what lingered in there, Kirra could remember every detail of her time here in this cavern. From the moment she came awake in it, to seeing the Fates at their spinning wheel even as she saw them now behind Hera, to having what really existed here revealed to her. Her memory here was vivid enough to know that she didn't want to take another step forward lest she hear the crunch beneath her feet, nor backward for fear she would collide with the wall hanging with the dead.

"Just tell me what you want from me."

"You misunderstand, Kirra."

Sympathy hung from Hera's expression like one of the clay masks Kirra's fellow villagers used to wear during the fall harvest days. They crafted them in honor of harvest deities in the hopes of reaping bountiful crops. The faces varied in expression from laughing to crying to mischievous. The mischievous ones played pranks on the unsuspecting or anyone whose crops reaped less than expected. Kirra felt like one of the unsuspecting, her life having reaped far less than she expected to have gained from it. And Hera's next response held little promise for the rest of her life.

"I want nothing from you. I want only to help you reach your full potential."

"What? _This?_ This cavern of death? No! You're wrong. If you think I'm capable of such atrocities…" Her voice quavered and tears filled her eyes when the image of her mother came back to her. "What happened to my mother? Please tell me she's all right."

"Atrocities?" Hera asked as though Kirra had mentioned her favorite dessert. "I know nothing of your mother, girl. Tell me what you saw."

"You know what I saw!"

"I shed the light, dear. Only you can know what it revealed."

The creak and spin of the wheel were apt to drive Kirra crazy, as was the eager light in those cold eyes. She refused to believe the god queen knew nothing of the bodies that hung on the wall or of the stench of rotting flesh. How could she not?

"I don't believe you," Kirra hissed, both hands pressed to the sides of her head in the hopes of drowning out the creaking wheel and the crunch that sounded with every step Hera took. If only she could clamp shut her nose and blind her eyes. Then she would not smell it or feel the need to avert her gaze from Hera's salivating intensity.

"Tell me what you saw, Kirra, and I will tell you what it means."

It took an iron will, but Kirra made herself take a step backward, hands splayed behind her to keep from running into anything that wasn't a solid wall. But an iron will cannot halt the fall of tears, and they fell freely down Kirra's cheeks.

"I saw death."

Hera took a step forward. "For your mother?"

"Yes, and for many others. Some were just bones and others were—"

"Fresh?"

Kirra nodded, her eyes gravitating to the cobble of scorched skulls. The burned ones. She wouldn't speak of them. She couldn't. "What does it mean?"

There wasn't much to read in Hera's expression. She gave away nothing. No enjoyment. No sympathy. Not even the keen interest she'd displayed a moment ago. Hera's eyes had become as cold as the underground tomb Kirra found herself.

"It means there will be much death in your future," Hera answered.

Kirra felt the world shift, unsteadying her and hazing her vision. "That's impossible," she said, her voice breathless, hardly there at all.

"You doubt me?" Hera pointed to something over Kirra's shoulder. "Look behind you."

But Kirra didn't look. Not right at first. Her eyes first rested upon the Fates watching as each step of this otherworldly encounter played out before them. They weren't supposed to be interested, but they were. Their spinning wheel held less attraction for them than for the girl shaking in her sandals. Keenest among them was Clotho. Her radiance heightened the subtle but desperate emotion she had seen on the girl some time ago. Kirra hadn't recognized it then, but she understood it now. It was fear. Clotho was afraid.

 _Of what?_

Kirra didn't ask, but not because she didn't want to. Hera caught on to their snooping. With a flick of her wrist, the Fates were gone, leaving behind their wall of spindles and the flickering of torches. Hera then stepped across the ground that crunched with the fragility of burned out corpses, placed her hands upon each of Kirra shoulders and turned her around. Kirra had no choice. She was like a block of ice in the grip of winter. She could not find warmth enough in her body to move of her own volition and she soon found herself staring into a wavering reflection.

She was staring into what looked like the glassy surface of water, only this one was free floating and standing vertically at attention. In it, Kirra saw herself. Her reflection rippled and undulated, morphing and changing until she saw not a slim nothing of a girl, but a man who was tall and broad-shouldered. The colors changed and the image was indistinct. At one moment, she thought she saw Hercules and then in another, she thought she saw a hooded man, one with a crossbow, the other with a wolf's head cowl. But as the image came complete, it solidified onto a face she recognized.

Tall with dark, wavy hair, he had filled out some since last she saw him. Gone was the posture of the beaten boy and the weary soldier. His back was straight. His muscles were taut. An inner fire lit his eyes. The sad, self-deprecating boy she had last seen walk away from Alcmene's house with Hercules and Iolaus was now a young man brimming with confidence.

He rose from his seat and took a step forward, mouth slightly agape as if he were struggling to breathe, eyes wide as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. And then he spoke, his voice trembling with an emotion that wasn't fear.

"Kirra. I knew you would come."

"Benny?"

Kirra heard herself say it, but it couldn't have come from her own mouth. It sounded too far away like a breath on the wind, whispered like the rustling of leaves. Her world shifted and she was falling, crumpling as might a wilted flower onto soft ground where laughter low and ominous carried on the wind toward her. Even as strong arms lifted her and a warm body carried her, chasing away the ice-cold touch of a god queen, she heard a low voice whisper: "Look and see your future."

A shudder worked through her. Those hands had left an icy chill to her upper body, though she could no longer feel them. It should have been her exposed calves that prickled with gooseflesh, not her upper arms. Her dress had been cut at the knee, hadn't it? Yes, by Tauthé, the slave girl from Babylonia.

 _I remember now!_

Kirra attempted to turn and triumphantly declare it. She could remember it all! Tauthé cutting both of their skirts to keep from making too much noise. She and Tauthé hiding from the Babylonian soldiers. Tauthé attempting to climb the tree…and disappearing. The guards chasing Kirra through the woods. The big cat. The bear. The wolf! The wolf with the blue eyes who changed…

Her vision came back into focus just in time to realize she could not turn around. Even if Hera had been there for her to declare the return of her memory, Kirra could not have said a thing for nor could she speak. Something had been tied across her mouth and knotted at the back of her head. Strands of her hair had been pulled into the knot. She could feel them yanking against her scalp with every move of her head. Were her hands not tied behind her back, she might have attempted to remove it.

She was on the ground, her face close enough to it that when her eyes did focus, they saw in minute detail the soft surface of an intricately woven rug. Gone was the rippling surface of…

Of what? What was it? Like water, but not water. Undulating like the folds of the thick cloth around her. She was inside a tent, its fabric a deep red like old blood. Kirra wrestled against her bonds both to wriggle herself free and to clear the fog. What had she seen? She struggled, twisting her head back and forth, not caring if the knot at the back of her head yanked hair from her scalp. Each popping follicle brought the image closer. A chair! Yes, but who sat upon it? Boots. Long legs. Confident eyes that she remembered as sad and dark hair so familiar no fog could hide it from her.

With enough struggle, Kirra managed to work the cloth from around her mouth. It rested at her chin, but at least she could breathe freely and she could speak.

"Benny! Where are you?"

The creak of old wood sounded behind her. Kirra knew that sound. Mother had a wooden rocking chair that Hiram had made when they were newly married. Mother had loved it. But as the years wore on, both on Mother and the rocking chair Hiram eventually claimed as his own, the wood aged. The more it aged the more it creaked. There was someone in the tent with her.

"Benny?"

"Who is Benny?"

Kirra froze. Benjamin's voice was a deep baritone. This voice was not so heavy, but Kirra recognized it just the same. It hadn't changed in register since the last time she heard him threaten, _"I have little respect for liars, girl."_

Her breath came quick and heavy then. The fear she claimed not to have for him moved through her as swift as a horse, or perhaps as a wolf. She remembered the fur brushing against her exposed calf, knocking her down. The mass of black fur and claws pouncing on the Babylonian soldier. The fangs going for his throat and his screams. Kirra twisted her wrists, hoping to pull them free, scraping at them with her nails. Her struggling accomplished little except to chafe her skin and split her nails.

"Don't bother," the voice behind her said, coming closer. "You'll not work yourself free of my bonds."

Booted feet were coming in view. Kirra tried to maneuver herself into a sitting position, but pulling her legs up underneath her was a foolhardy mission. Her ankles had been tied together, and not only were her hands bound behind her back, but he had also tied her to the tent pole. The position afforded her no dignity. It made little difference. Even if he hadn't bound her, she would still have found herself in that a position, groveling in fear.

How could she have thought those two were out to help her and Tauthé? Kirra had called them murderous once. After what she had witnessed, the word was more genuine than she originally believed and it froze her in place when he came to kneel before her. She couldn't look up at him for fear she might see the muzzle of a wolf and teeth coated in blood.

"There's no reason to be afraid. I'm not liable to eat you seeing as how I've already had my breakfast."

"You mean the soldier?" Kirra asked, her tone thick with fear and accusation.

"No, boiled hen eggs," he said with a congenial chuckle. "Quite good, actually, with a little seasoning. I have some left over if you're hungry."

"Let me go."

"That I won't do, but I will gladly feed you."

While he rose and walked out of her sight, Kirra continued to struggle with her bonds, shades of Chalcis coming back to haunt her. She could almost smell the oil and hear the crackle of thunder. If she looked up, would she see the clouds roiling like an inverted witch's cauldron? She forced herself to concentrate on anything but the past. It held no joy for her anymore. The sights inside the tent would be her distraction.

None of them was remotely canine in nature. What took up the space were the basic necessities of any person—a place to lay one's head, a wooden chest to store one's things, a stool for sitting, a desk for writing, and a lamp to see by. Their exotic aspect was what mesmerized her. Geometric shapes woven into the tent cloth. Angular designs stitched onto the bedding. Etchings in the wooden chest that resembled knots but were clearly depictions of various animals, a wolf being one of them.

But her eyes landed upon something she did not expect to see. It was made of fabric and looked to have been stitched together with old scraps left over from the making of clothing. It had four legs and a tail, was likely stuffed with wool, and had buttons for eyes. A toy horse. The button eyes stared at her from behind the leg of a small cot as though she was to blame for its situation.

The guilt only seemed right. There was still much left undone that she had to right and her concern wasn't only for Hercules. Tauthé was still out there somewhere. She had to have seen these monsters taking her away. Could she be out there right now, alone and afraid? Or was she lying in wait, trying to find a way to rescue her? For Tauthé's sake, Kirra hoped she had continued their journey to Thebes on her own. If Kirra couldn't go to Hercules's rescue, at least Tauthé would find her father and be safe from the Babylonian soldiers who wished to recapture her.

"You're wasting your time. Stop struggling. You're only hurting yourself." The booted feet returned and a plate with a hardboiled egg landed in front of her. "Here, let me."

He took her arm, and though Kirra tried to wriggle out of his grasp, there was no escaping him. He had her and he could do whatever he wanted. But her terrified mind conjured worse than what reality had to offer. Her captor helped her into the sitting position she had attempted to attain on her own. One of his hands found its way behind her bare knees, bending them and shifting her body to lean her against the tent pole. They were warmer than she remembered. It wasn't until she saw his hands break the egg into pieces and bring it to her mouth that she noticed they were gloveless. They were the hands of a man, not the clawed paws of a wolf. Still, she could not look him in the face.

Kirra turned away from the hand attempting to feed her.

"I know you're hungry, Kirra," he said and sat cross-legged in front of her. "You haven't eaten for an entire day. Open your mouth. Eat."

Her pounding heart slowed. The fear that had crawled up her spine and threatened to take over her mind retreated at the sound of her name coming from this stranger's voice. And the piece of egg hovering beneath her nose smelled so good her stomach growled. Still…

Kirra stilled herself to give him a good look. The face hadn't changed. Bronzed skin marked by a scar beneath the right eye hidden or enhanced by a longish tattoo that stretched from his forehead to cheekbone right across the eyelid. His eyes were as blue as she remembered them in Alcmene's house, but here in the confines of the tent where daylight only showed through cracks in the fabric and sparse torchlight lit the interior, they were darker than she remembered, almost thundercloud gray in color. The difference was in the loss of the wolf's head cowl. It hung behind him off his shoulders, replaced by a messy cascade of unkempt brown hair, lighter in color than the stubble on his cheeks. His hair, resting on his shoulders and to an unknown length down his back, was longer than Benny's and not nearly as thick as wolf's fur.

Her good look over, Kirra asked, "What are you?"

One corner of his mouth raised in that same grin he wore the last time she saw him. "Take a bite and I'll tell you."

"Undo the rope around my ankles and I'll take a bite."

His half grin turned into a full-fledged smile and in return, Kirra frowned. Something about that smile had her stomach churning, and not from nausea. She wished it had been. She wished he was hideously scarred and ugly like King Nikolos or as fierce and terrifying as the wolf. On the contrary, the man was exceedingly handsome.

"I think not," he said, his smile tapering off and turning into a remembered grimace. "You do considerable damage with your feet."

Kirra firmly affixed her clay mask, best worn when other confusing emotions were riding high. She leaned forward and took the offered food between her teeth, keeping her lips as far away from the tips of his fingers, and nipped one of them in the process.

He hissed and shook his hand. "And your teeth."

"Good," she said as she chewed, trying not to lose herself in the taste. "I was hoping I hit my mark… _both times_. You're capable of worse with your own teeth. I saw what you did. You murdered that man."

" _That man_ would have done worse to you. I saved your life, Kirra. You should be grateful."

He grabbed her lower jaw in his uninjured hand, and though Kirra fought to free herself, he forced her mouth open to shove another glob of egg into her mouth. Kirra pulled again and this time he let her go.

"How do you know my name?" she said once her jaw settled into place enough to chew, ingest, and speak. "What do you want with me?"

"Now, now. One question at a time. Don't you want the answer to your first one?" His blue eyes pinned her as easily as daggers thrown across the room, only his were right there and they were getting closer. "Do you really want to know _what_ I am?"

He set aside the plate and moved to all fours, his fingers splaying over the rug like sharply taloned claws. He crawled toward her, his movements not like a man's. He had become an animal without taking its shape, moving fluidly toward her, stalking her, one hand finding a place beside her on the right, another on the left, bringing those blue eyes closer until they fairly glowed.

Kirra turned her head, her heart picking up its rhythm of fear once again, but it didn't still her curiosity, not even when a growl issued from deep in his throat. She'd heard the same menacing growl in the forest when it cornered her and transformed itself into the man who was now sniffing her like a carcass. Kirra fought to keep her breathing steady, from fear and from some other feeling that rushed blood up to her cheeks. The tip of his nose was following the trail of her pulsing jugular.

"You're afraid," he whispered, his seeking nose moving into her hair, which put his breath right at her ear. "You should be. If I wanted to rip your throat out and leave you to bleed, I could." His hand caught her jaw again and turned her to face him. His eyes _were_ glowing. She hadn't imagined it. They were like two blue flames in the shadows surrounding his face. "But I don't want to. Do you want to know why? Because I'm a man, a mortal human being just like you."

He turned her brusquely from him, stood, and walked away. The plate of crumbled egg lay near her feet, tempting but unattainable both for her inability to reach it and for her beating heart squashing her appetite. He had the nerve to act as if _she_ had offended _him_.

"You're not a man," she said, praying that her flaming cheeks wouldn't give away just how flustered he'd made her. "You've trussed me up like a criminal when I've done nothing. What do you want with me? Why am I here?"

He returned, standing at his full height, the tip of a wineskin extended to her mouth. "You're here to answer my questions." She hesitated. He smiled. "It's water, Kirra. Go on. I bet you're thirsty."

He tilted the wineskin to her upturned mouth. While it was cool and refreshing going down her throat, it was more than she could swallow at once and it overflowed down the sides of her face, down her neck and into the bodice of her ruined dress. She had a feeling he did it on purpose.

"See, I can be a generous captor when I chose to be," he said, stooping and managing to wipe the water from her face with the back of his hand even though she did her best to avoid his touch.

She didn't fail to notice that he had done his best to avoid all of her questions. "I've been jailed by worse captors than you."

He raised his eyebrows. "So, you are a criminal?"

"No." Kirra looked away. "Maybe a victim of circumstance and bad timing, but I've never done anything that warrants being tied to a tent pole."

"Victim of circumstance? I wonder if you aren't more a girl who fancies herself a heroine."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Did you help her escape or did the two of you fall in together on the road to Corinth?"

"You mean Tauthé," she said, breathless with worry. "Is she here?"

He narrowed his eyes, fashioning the movement of his lips to match hers and get the pronunciation right. "Tauthé?" He mulled it over. "Interesting. Yes, she's here."

Kirra sighed. "Is she all right?"

"Tell me how you met."

By the set look on his face, she wasn't going to get any information about Tauthé until she told him what he wanted to know. The dilemma being what she should or should not give away. A few minor embellishments might be required.

"I'd gone into Corinth to pick up some fabric for my aunt when Tauthé pulled me to the side and asked for my help."

"Why you?"

She wasn't about to tell him anything about being drawn to the temple or having a conversation with a goddess, which was what piqued Tauthé's interest in the first place. That was privileged information he need know nothing about.

"Perhaps I have a kind face."

He harrumphed his disbelief and she continued.

"I couldn't turn her away. She'd suffered enough injustice. So, we switched clothes. I drew the guard's attention away while she snuck out the east entrance. We met on the road once I got out and then I brought her home with me to keep her safe. You found us the next morning, in my house, where you assaulted me."

He ignored her complaint. "That was a brave thing you did. Taking on a wealthy Awilu and setting his slave free."

Her recognition of the word "Awilu" made her forget his contrived praise. Tauthé said the word the night before. It was the name of the social elite in Babylonia. But how would he know of it?

"You realize the penalty for such a grievance in Babylonia is death," he continued, emphasizing the word 'grievance' with spite.

"I don't care."

"How noble of you, Kirra. Risking death to help another. Had I not come when I did, your pretty head might not have remained attached to your shoulders." He tapped a finger under her chin and chuckled softly when Kirra turned her face away from him. Picking up the plate, he held it under her nose. "More?"

"No, thank you."

He placed the plate on the edge of his cot. "Tell me what happened in Corinth."

"What?"

"You were there. I saw dark clouds, smoke, explosions. What happened?"

Kirra had to think fast. That had been Tauthé's exact description of Corinth while she waited on her and the man who called himself the King of Thieves. If he had to ask, it meant he had been there but had witnessed the rampage from outside Corinth just as Tauthé had. She knew of no subtle way to explain to him that Hera's monster had come for her. She was supposed to be a lure, one designed to draw Hercules to his death. Judging by her continued dreams, she probably still was.

"I saw it, too," she said, hoping she sounded as convincing as she didn't feel. "I don't know what it was. We had gotten out by then."

He moved animal-like toward again, one foot slinking toward her, then the other. "I've seen dark clouds like the ones that hovered over Corinth. They preclude the doom of an angry god just minutes before wreaking havoc upon an unsuspecting people. I know what that's all about and I think you do, too. Who did you anger?"

"I angered no one."

"You're not very good at this."

"Good at what?"

He leaned toward her, elbows resting on his knees. "Lying, Kirra. You're lying to me just like before."

"No, I was simply trying to get home to my mother in Thebes when I stopped to help a girl who had lost her way—"

He went to his knees, getting closer. "And went in the opposite direction of Thebes. You said you brought her home with you. Had you stayed on the isthmus and kept northeast I might believe you. But you backtracked in the direction of Nemea. You ran from Corinth as though you were being chased!"

Kirra could hardly breathe. He'd been watching them. He knew everything, _saw_ everything. Had he hidden in that other form? How long had he and other one followed them through the woods to Alcmene's house before they decided to attack? She tried to explain what he saw the best she knew how, but the words came out in a tumble with little form.

"The soldiers…they must have followed us…we ran—"

For a wonder, he never saw the truth dawn in her eyes. Nergal's men _had_ followed them. There was no other way to account for their being in Alcmene's yard. However, her captor's anger with her inability to tell him the truth as he saw it precluded his canine senses. He stood, walked to his cot, muttering curses in a language she couldn't understand, and grabbed the plate. When he raised his hand, Kirra thought it would land on her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for a blow like the many she had experienced at Hiram's hand. Instead, she heard a thump and looked to see that the plate had hit the tent fabric and tumbled to the rug along with the leftover pieces of egg.

He was back in her space, growling and baring teeth that had grown into fangs. "Stop lying to me!"

The image of those teeth sinking into the soldier's neck, his cries silenced by the crushing of his windpipe, had her working out a cry of her own.

"I'm not!"

She couldn't say what brought on the tears. Maybe it was the lack of food and water, or perhaps she was broken down from having been on the run for two days straight with hardly a break in between. Maybe it was her already broken heart, torn in two by a man who she thought felt the same for her as she did for him, or her utter sense of desolation in the days after Chalcis. Whatever the reason, Kirra broke down. She went from hanging on the edge of a precipice by her fingers to plummeting hundreds of meters to the hard earth below. Her clay mask crumbled and along with it went every other physical barrier.

Her shoulders slumped. Her head lowered as far as her bonds would allow, and Kirra cried. She cried wretched tears, her wailing as pitiful as a dying animal. A dangerous reaction when in the presence of a predator, but she could not control it. For all his pronouncements of bravery and nobility, she was nothing but a sniveller. Where was the strong girl who fought to keep Benny alive? Who bit and drew blood to keep him from being injured? What happened to the girl who could talk a blue streak to get herself out of trouble?

She died. A little at a time, she had withered away, starting with the day King Nikolos's men tied her to the oil-soaked ballista, the day he'd rolled her out for public execution. Was it resigning herself to death that killed her inside? Or was it that a part of her had found her father. Kirra could remember it like it was yesterday. She'd seen his face, every contour, every line, the exact shape of his nose and the color of his eyes. He'd been as clear to her eyes as the Hera's creature had been. He was just a fuzzy image again. She couldn't will his features back to mind. Maybe that's what did her in. Maybe that's what killed the Kirra she used to know.

If there was one good outcome to her embarrassing display, it was the effect it had on her captor. His growl faded, the fangs retracted, and he backed away. If she could have seen him through her warbled vision, she might have seen the man who made that stuffed toy hiding under his bed. He was a father, and a father understood the plight of their children. Her father would have were he still alive. She had to hope this one did, too. Kirra hadn't intended to use her tears to gain the upper hand, but now that she had it, she was going to use it to her advantage.

"All I wanted when I went into Corinth was to find a way home to my mother. She's alone. One thing after another has kept me from getting there. She needs me. Please, let me go."

He remained quiet while he waited for Kirra's sobs to subside. When he didn't bother to wipe her eyes as he had wiped her mouth, she wondered if her sobs had fallen on deaf ears. Then, he placed a finger beneath her chin and made her look at him.

"Do you want to go home to your mother?"

Kirra nodded, but the flame in those blue eyes registered with little sympathy.

"Tell me what happened in Corinth and I'll bring you home myself."

He wasn't going to relent. Kirra turned her tear-stained face from him one last time. She didn't say it, but the move and the defiant expression she displayed to him told him all he needed to know. She had a story to tell. A story no amount of threats or fake promises would wrench from her. She would tell him nothing.

He rose with a frustrated huff and walked out of her sight. But just as soon as he left, he returned at her ear, saying, "When I come back, if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'll make what the Babylonian soldiers were going to do to you look like child's play."

He was gone again. She heard the ruffle of fabric and then blinding white daylight entered the tent, forcing Kirra to shut her eyes and squeeze out a few more tears. It closed a moment later, bringing blessed relief to her stinging eyes.

"Hold your positions," she heard him just outside. "No one is allowed in or out of my tent. No exceptions. And no food or water for the prisoner."

She prayed he was just bluffing, trying to scare her, but the required response came.

"Yes, sir."

The crunch of his retreating footsteps outside brought with it an ugly memory. _Crunch._ Kirra saw the skulled cobblestone. She heard the ominous laughter of Hera and she wondered if the reason her captor seemed so desperate to know what happened in Corinth was that he was in some way involved in it. Did he and his companion, as she had feared when she first encountered them, have some connection to Hera and her desire to stamp out Hercules?

But he wasn't the worst of her worries. More than anything, she needed to know why Benjamin had been in her dream. Why had he shown no fear in Hera's presence? _I knew you would come,_ he had said. He'd spoken it as if someone had promised him something. Something he had no right to want.

Kirra wriggled her wrists. She didn't want to know about Benjamin's motives or her captor's. If she stayed any longer, she might find out more than she wanted to know about both of them. So, she fought the rope tearing at her skin. She didn't care about the pain. She fought not only to get away but to keep from growing tired. If she tired, she might fall asleep. If she fell asleep, she would dream again, and Kirra didn't want to dream anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

**Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

Iolaus opened his eyes and, for a moment, had no idea where he was. The final vestiges of his dream were sloughing away like worn snakeskin. It attempted to slink away into his subconscious, never to be remembered, but this time, he managed to hold onto a piece of it.

Darkness.

Not the darkness behind his eyes when he fell asleep after a good night's drinking, but darkness so thick he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. Darkness so overpowering that even the slightest sounds magnified hundreds of times. The creak and sway of tall trees. The rustle of leaves in a breeze. A flash of silver. And laughter. Emotionless. Heartless. Odd, yes, but he'd heard it. It clung to his waking mind even as his eyes attempted to discern his surroundings.

He'd found himself on a bed in a small room. Morning light was coming in through a single window and he could hear the sound of life outside it—rolling wagon wheels, the cackle of poultry, the lone bleat of a goat, and children playing.

Dream finally gone, memory of the day before came back to him. The road into Thebes. Anticipation at seeing Jason and Alcmene again. Dreading the interaction with Kirra. Then had come the stench of Hera. The fire she'd sent down on a small village on the outskirts of Thebes. Iolaus had done his best to help organize the villagers into putting out the fire, but it was Hercules who saved the day. He usually did and in spectacular fashion. Knocking that water tower down had been a stroke of genius. Put the fire out in one fell swoop. Nothing left but a few spots that crackled with flame around the edges and they made short work of those, too. Of course, Hercules hadn't calculated what the people would do for water storage in the future when he 'improvised in the face of disaster.' That invariably meant he and Hercules had to spend the rest of the afternoon repairing the damn thing. Iolaus remembered every aching second under the hot afternoon sun.

It had been good to be back in Thebes, though. Seeing old faces. Meeting old friends from his Academy days. He just wished Hercules could find the same joy in being back home as he did. Herc could only see the damage Hera had wrought on his hometown, and with those negative emotions beating away at his psyche came memories of home and family.

Iolaus could still see the forlorn look on Hercules's face after Vedos, the village leader, had thanked them for all they had done and invited them over for dinner. The response from Hercules had been, "We'll see," which meant they probably wouldn't make it.

"There's such strength in this community, everything that's good and descent," Hercules had said after Vedos moved on to help the villagers. He watched them working together to clean up what Hera left behind after her fire took out one of their community centers. What Hercules said next, told Iolaus all he needed to know about where his friend's mood had gone. "And Hera can wipe it out with a single act of vengeance."

Sitting up in bed, Iolaus noticed the one across from him was empty and still made up the same as when he'd lumbered into the night, full on brisket and strong ale. The villagers had pulled together their meager supplies to offer him and Hercules a feast. A feast Hercules had never arrived to partake in. The room at the Inn, as well, had been offered free. The perks of traveling with a well-known hero. But the true hero never showed to reap the benefits.

 _Two years,_ Iolaus thought. Seemed like yesterday. He could still remember the sound of Deianeira's laugh. It was full and held all her heart.

 _Single act of vengeance._

Hercules hadn't just been talking about Hera's attack on Thebes. He had to give Hercules his space. Being back had to be tough on him. It was good Jason and Alcmene were here. Kirra, too, despite how annoying the girl was. Iolaus hoped they could give Hercules the comfort he didn't know how to give. His idea of comfort was…honestly?...brisket and strong ale.

The upside to all of this, if there was one, was that Hercules hadn't been here to witness him waking up from another bad dream. They were getting weirder and more worrisome than Iolaus wished to admit. He could still hear that laugh in his head. There had been no feeling to it, no mirth. Just cruelty. Iolaus shivered at the thought. That was the thing about bad dreams. They always left you with a bad feeling upon awakening; or in Iolaus's case, a portentous feeling of foreboding. If Hercules were here, he'd drag Iolaus to that dream-analyzing friend of his. What did he say his name was? Onie-something-or-other. Whatever. All he knew was Herc would drag him to see the guy kicking and screaming. Iolaus was sure of it. As sure as he was barefoot and shirtless on this bright morning.

Iolaus shook the dream and his worry for Herc from his mind while he stuffed his feet in his boots and searched for his vest. Where could he have put it? He eventually found it under the bed, wondering how in Tartarus it got there when his stomach began to growl. He needed to get some breakfast. Maybe he'd take Vedos up on that offer of a meal.

Iolaus walked out of the Inn and into the sunlight, whistling a tune the band had been playing in the tavern the night before. He would get something to eat, maybe chat up Vedos for a while, then go in search of Hercules. He was most likely at the old homestead with Jason and Alcmene, showing Kirra around and regaling her with stories of their days in the Academy. As Iolaus thought about what the rest of his day would entail, he forgot about his bad dream. It faded away like dreams do in the face of everyday life.

But before the day was out, that dream would come back to him as vividly as the people he passed on the road.

* * *

They were covered in fallen leaves from the trees nearby. Green grass had grown up around them and withered with the sun. Autumn was almost here, based on the color of the leaves caught up at their base, and there must have been a recent rain for mud had caked there, as well.

Hercules picked up the leaves around the tombstones and tossed them like heathens in a holy place. He pulled up the weeds, cleaned away the mud as best he could, and tried to make the weathered stone appear as pristine as the day he placed them there.

"I wish I'd been here to take better care of you," he said as he worked, knowing he could never make them pristine again, any more than he could bring his family back. "From the day we met, that all I ever wanted. It's hard to be reminded that I can't do it anymore. I guess that's why it's taken me so long to come back."

How many times had he and Iolaus come close to Thebes and kept right on going? He didn't want to know. Ever since his mother had moved closer to Corinth to be with Jason, he'd found it even harder to venture this way. Coming here today hadn't been his idea, either. Not really. When he and Iolaus had been running around Athens, looking for a murderer, Thebes was all Iolaus could talk about. The old days at the Academy with Jason and Lilith and the good times they had there. Sure, they had their run-ins with troublemaking gods who had nothing better to do with their time, same as they do now, but things had been simpler then. He didn't have the cares that he carried with him now. Still, Iolaus hinted all throughout their time in Athens that they should beat a hasty path to Thebes after, and eventually, Hercules gave in.

Spending time in Thebes would be easier with family close, so he wrote to his mother and made a special occasion out of it, which Iolaus heartily agreed to. That the two-year anniversary of Deianeira and the children's death was close hadn't crossed his mind until Hera showed her face in the same place she'd murdered his family. Seeing that lightning come down, sensing the familiar acrid stench of her presence had brought it all back. The loss. The rage. The need for revenge. He was thankful Iolaus gave him time alone to process those feelings.

He hadn't climbed the hill where their tombstone stood right away. He'd taken the familiar road to the old homestead on foot, beating out those long-buried feelings with each step only to find the house he'd grown up in abandoned and succumbing to the elements. Mother said someone had moved in after he left, but perhaps she had been wrong. He'd half expected to find Jason and Mother waiting for him, but the place had been deserted. Nothing lived there but wild animals and twisting vines. They had found their way into the house through windows and holes in the roof the weather must have wrought. The place had gone cold. It lost the warmth Mother had infused into it when he was younger. The home he remembered was now just a somewhat familiar shape; walls he recognized and doorways he used to walk beneath. What he remembered as home was gone.

Hercules spent the night alone. He made a campfire in what had once been the living room. The hole in the roof provided adequate ventilation for the smoke. He didn't eat. He couldn't. He simply waited for Jason and Mother to show and tried not to think until sleep claimed him.

He was luckier than Iolaus. Bad dreams hadn't plagued him, but waking memories did.

Once he'd freshened himself at the creek near the house and forced himself to eat a bit of jerky from his pack, he knew what he had to do. It was the doing it that was hard.

Hercules sighed, frustrated with his own troubled mind. "I'm afraid to admit this, but sometimes I feel like, without you, I don't know why I keep fighting."

But even as he picked errant leaves from Ilea's grave, he knew. Kirra's sad face and her golden hair so like Ilea's was still fresh in his mind. He'd almost lost her, too, to flame and vengeance. Then he hurt her maybe worse than Nikolos ever could have. She had to live with the pain he caused her.

Hercules shook his head at Deianeira's grave. "I know what you'd say. You'd say, 'It was a great thing you did today, helping to save all those people.' But tomorrow, Hera's just going to destroy something else, and the day after that."

And that's what worried him the most. He couldn't always be there, just as he couldn't be there for his family when Hera destroyed them. He told himself he had been put here on Earth for one reason—to help others. But how could he do that when he couldn't even save the ones he loved.

"Things just seemed to make more sense when I had you and the children to hold," Hercules said, his vision wavering. "I miss you, Deianeira."

He stood, flicked away the tears that threatened, and mumbled "yeah" as though everything he'd said had blown away with the wind like useless parchment. In truth, he'd hoped for catharsis, a purging of emotions that would leave him feeling cleansed of the selfish thoughts that had been plaguing him since they arrived in Thebes. Instead, he felt hollow. He felt lost.

"Hercules!"

One corner of his mind, the one that wasn't really paying attention thought, _And so it starts again._ But the part of him that was always paying attention knew that voice and it wasn't some terrified villager looking for help. That voice belonged to his mother. The sight of Mother's smiling face was the medicine he needed. She was his catharsis. No one else had the ability to wrench him from feelings of sadness the way she did.

She and Jason were climbing the east side of the hill. There was a bouquet of wildflowers in her hand. Hercules knew who they were for and it wasn't for him. He hugged her.

When they parted, she looked over his shoulder. "Hercules, how are you?"

"I'm well, Mother," he answered, giving her the most reassuring smile he could while he shook hands with Jason, who patted him on the shoulder.

"You _look_ well, old friend. Where's Iolaus?"

"He's back in town," Hercules said. "He said he'll join us later."

"Good," he said. "It's been too long."

"Yes, it has."

Mother stepped between the two of them without a word and brought her flowers to Deianeira's grave. She set them on the ground at the foot of the tombstone as though they were fragile pieces of glass, placed a kiss to the tips of her fingers and then pressed those fingers atop the tombstone. Hercules watched her do that four times. Deianeira, Aeson, Klonus, and Ilea. Each and every kiss pained him because it was so similar to how she would greet them when they were alive. She would kiss Deianeira's cheek and afterward place a kiss atop each child's head.

Hercules took in a shaky breath and Jason squeezed his shoulder, but when Mother straightened and walked back their way, she was smiling. He could see that it was an effort, but she made it anyway. Hercules thought he'd best do the same.

"Come on, Hercules," she took his hand and said. "I want to show you something."

Back down the hill they went. Toward the house. It hadn't dawned on him that Kirra wasn't with them until that moment. He thought to ask, but then, emotion was too heavy in him. He feared the prospect of speaking only to hear his voice break, which would make their meeting more awkward than it already was. So, he followed Mother and Jason, noticing their wagon parked alongside the dilapidated building he once called home, and listening to Jason tell him the story of a broken wagon wheel and a night spent in Thespiae.

From this vantage point at the crest of the hill, home almost looked like it used to. Dappled in sunlight. Morning breeze blowing through the trees round about the house. His mind's eyes could almost make out Mother's garden in the front yard. It was nothing more than a shape now, grown over with weeds, but he could see it.

 _Kirra must be inside looking around,_ Hercules thought. She wouldn't be that eager to see him, not after what happened. She'd be lost in the adventure of discovering the home in which he'd grown up, the home she'd heard so much about. He could almost see her excited smile. Any minute now, she would walk out of what remained of the front door, shielding her eyes from the sun as she watched them come down the hill. Only, he never saw her.

Mother led him past the remains of her garden and toward the very front door he had imagined Kirra stepping out of. Alcmene walked through the rooms as though she had just stepped out of the house a moment before to pick a few vegetables.

"Mother, what do you want to show me?"

"Just wait," she said, looking back at him. "It's right this way."

She led him toward his old room. It was musty here. Animals must have begun to use this corner of the house as a nesting place. The floor was still sturdy, however, unlike the floor in the living room. Mother looked around a second or two and then she smiled and pointed.

"Here it is."

On the wall was a child's drawing of a horse, and beside it, a man with a shield and sword.

Jason laughed. "Did you draw that, Hercules?"

"I did," he said with a chuckle of his own. "I was…what, Mother? Five or six?"

"If that." She looked at Jason. "I had told him the story of Amphitryon and his exploits in battle with the stead he'd named after his father, Alcaeus. He and Iphicles used to have little arguments over which one of them was going to be more like their father."

Hercules smiled. "Turns out it wasn't me." When his mother frowned, he amended, "The kingly type, I mean. Iphicles has much of his grandfather in him."

But Hercules wanted off the subject of distant relatives and the life he could never have had. He looked around, listening and hoping a third person would come around the corner and enter the room with a bashful smile.

"But, where's Kirra?" he asked. "Didn't she come with you?"

As quiet as the room was with old memory lingering, the second he mentioned Kirra it went silent. Mother turned her gaze away and lowered her head.

"Mother?" When Hercules went to touch her arm, Alcmene walked from the room, leaving him and Jason alone. "What? What's wrong?"

Jason's expression didn't hold any more hope. Hercules felt his stomach drop. "What happened to Kirra?"

"Nothing happened to her," Jason said, holding out placating hands.

His stomach didn't ache nearly as much to hear that, but it didn't go away either. "Is she all right?"

"She's fine…as far as we know."

"'As far as you know'?"

Jason sighed, pursed his lips and dug into the pocket of his trousers. What he extracted from it, and subsequently extended to Hercules, was a folded piece of parchment. It looked as if it had been crumpled at one point, and through its thin material, Hercules could only just make out a script he recognized. He didn't want to touch it. He didn't want to know what it contained. He'd seen enough negativity to bring his mood down. He didn't want anymore. But there was also no point in delaying the inevitable.

Hercules took the parchment from Jason's outstretched hand, unfolded it and read the words written in Kirra's handwriting: _"I'm sorry. Don't be angry with me, but I can't stay here anymore. I feel locked in a cage. I don't belong here. Forgive me."_

"She left it on her pillow day before yesterday," Jason said, his voice melancholy. "Alcmene found it."

Hercules squeezed his eyes shut at the thought. He could only imagine how terrible it must have been for her to find the letter lying there instead of Kirra. But there was just one thing he couldn't understand.

"Why?" He shook the letter in his hand. "What happened? What preceded this?"

"All I can tell you is what I told Alcmene yesterday. When Kirra came back from Euboea, she stopped being the happy girl you brought to us a year ago. Sometimes we would catch her crying, but she would never say what was wrong. She'd just play it off like she had something in her eye. The one time I asked her, really sat down and had a heart to heart with her, the only thing she would tell me is that she felt lost."

Hercules looked down at the writing on the parchment and its hurried penmanship, how it trailed at the end, the ink fading. She wrote it fast and in the middle of the night, judging by the fact that Mother found the letter on her pillow the next morning. Where could she have gone? _I feel locked in a cage. I don't belong here._

Lost. Hercules knew the feeling, and if Kirra felt lost, it was for one reason. She wanted to get as far away from any memory of him as she could. She went home.

Folding the letter, he placed it inside the folds of his shirt. "I've got to find her."

He moved with purpose from the childhood bedroom he used to share with Iphicles, but only made it as far as the doorway. Jason had taken hold of his arm. He wouldn't have needed to. Hercules would have frozen at the sight of Mother dabbing at tears anyway.

"It'll do you no good, Hercules," Jason said. "She's long gone. It's been days."

Hercules turned from the pain of seeing his Mother grieving again. "I know where she's gone, Jason. She's gone home to her mother. If I leave now, I can probably catch up to her."

But Jason's firm grip on his arm wouldn't let up. "To what end?"

"She's out there alone, Jason."

"By her own choice."

"Anything could happen between here and Endor," he said, pulling himself from Jason's grip. "I have to bring her back."

"And what if she doesn't want to come back with you?"

Jason was one of his closest and oldest friends. They didn't go back as far as he and Iolaus, but time had formed a friendship between the two of them as close as brothers. Being brothers meant you didn't hold back the truth even if it hurt. Hercules may have pulled his arm out of Jason's firm hand, but his words held just as much sway over him.

"What will you do then, Hercules? Will you force her?"

"Of course, not," he answered, his voice tight.

"She's a grown woman. I know you care about her. We all do. But you have to allow her the freedom to make her own decisions."

"And what if her decisions get her into trouble? What if she's injured? What if she's accosted on the road?"

"And what if she planned to leave in advance? What if she arranged to ride north with a nice family and is sitting comfortably in the back of a wagon? You can imagine a lot of scenarios, good and bad, but it doesn't change the fact that Kirra is ready to move on in life without us. We have to let her."

Hercules shook his head. He couldn't wrap his mind around that sentiment. What he kept going back to was that frail girl who had come stumbling into his camp late one evening, cold and in shock, bruised but smiling to have found him on her own. He had decided right then and there that Kirra's safety was his responsibility and that he would never fail to protect her, not as he had that night, not as he had his own daughter.

"I—I can't," he said. "I failed Kirra once and I promised on my own life that I'd never let it happen again. And then it did. In Chalcis. She almost died because of me. Because I couldn't get to her in time. I can't let that happen again."

Jason placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "What happened to Kirra wasn't your fault. Neither was what happened to Deianeira and kids. Bad things happen, Hercules. Spiteful things. Evil things. Things we can't control. And being here in Thebes has surely brought those old memories to the surface, but you have to realize something."

Hercules turned a tolerant gaze to Jason. "And what would that be?"

"That you can't save everyone, and sometimes, not everyone needs to be saved."

That was a hard lesson Hercules had learned many times over. He'd lost enough in this life to know the truth of Jason's words. So, why did it feel like a kick in the gut? Because this time, as impossible as it was for Jason to soften the blow, Hercules knew the truth. Kirra didn't belong to him. She wasn't his to save. As much as her presence was like having a piece of his family returned to him, Kirra wasn't Ilea. She wasn't his daughter and she never would be.

All the better for her. His family was gone, taken from this earth because of one woman's jealousy and spite. He couldn't, in good conscience, force Kirra into a life fraught with the kind of danger being a part of his family entailed. She deserved better.

A gentle hand slipped into his. Hercules looked into the face of his mother. Her eyes were red-rimmed. He saw heartache there, but he also saw solidarity. She understood, and while she might have wanted him to run off in search of Kirra, she saw the futility in it just as he did.

"Jason is right, Hercules. It was hard for me to see at first, too. We need to let her go, and we need to trust she knows what she's doing. If home with her mother is where Kirra wants to be, then that's where she should be and we have no right to stop her." She squeezed his hand when his frown deepened. "For us, this is home. It may be old and run down, but here in Thebes is where _our_ family is right now. You, me, Jason, Iolaus, and our memories of the ones we've lost. That's where our focus should be."

Hercules sighed. His mother was right. They had traveled all this way. It would be wrong to leave them now. His family was here—those who still walked this earth and those who had passed on. This is where he needed to be.

He drew his mother into his arms, drawing strength and healing from her tiny frame. In everything, she had always been his rock, so how could he blame Kirra for wanting to go back to her mother? He had bruised the heart of a girl who had only asked for love in return. If going home and being with someone who loved her could heal her and mend her wounds, then Hercules would let her go with all the well wishes he could bestow. He just wished he could have seen her home safe and sound.

He broke from Mother and clapped Jason on the back, leading them from his old bedroom and toward the front of the house. Still, in the back of his mind, Hercules knew he would worry about Kirra until he got word from her.

"Come on. Let's go take a look around the old place."

"It's definitely not what it used to be," Mother said with a light laugh.

"Neither are we," Jason added.

That forced a smile to rework Hercules's sullen visage. "You can say that again."

He wasn't the same person who'd grown up surrounded by these walls. Time, war, the people he'd met along the way, grown to love and lost had changed him. Kirra was one of those people. She held a special place in his heart and he was going to miss her. He thought about that time in Nesimus when she'd traveled all the way from Corinth just to bring him the bad news about Daedalus. The news hadn't been a happy moment, but seeing her again had made him happy enough to pick her up and spin her around as used to do with Ilea. Thinking of it brought on another memory of spending a day at the lake with the kids. He used to spin Ilea by the hands. He could remember her giggles and childish screams as though those family days by the lake had happened just a day ago.

"How about when we're finished here, we take a walk by the lake. It'll be good to see the old places."

"That would be wonderful," Mother said. "I'll bring the food we brought to travel with and we can have a picnic."

"Good idea," Jason said, "but what about Iolaus? Isn't he supposed to meet us here?"

Hercules waved the idea away. Iolaus was probably busy having a good time in town. "I wouldn't worry about Iolaus. He'll find us."


	8. Chapter 8

**Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

Kirra stopped struggling. The skin around her wrists had abraded to such an extent that the slightest movement was like setting her skin aflame. There was no getting loose. Just as he said, she wasn't going to work herself free of his bonds. They were too well crafted. Sweat had begun to bead at her brow. She was expending and tiring herself for nothing.

"If I cannot be my own hero, who in Tartarus will I look to now?" she said in a huff.

Almost as an answer, a rustling of tent cloth caught her attention. Kirra thought a shadow would fall over her and _he_ would be standing over her with that insufferable smile, but what should she see crawling on all fours from underneath the tent? A small, towheaded boy. He couldn't be any older than six or seven years. In one hand, he held a stick like a sword. Someone had sharpened one end to a dull edge and tied a shorter piece toward the opposite end, creating a pommel and hilt. His eyes fell on her almost instantly and in them, Kirra not only saw the same ice-blue eyes, she saw raw fear.

She watched him get to his little sandaled feet, a tattered, knee-length linen tunic shaking as badly as the toy sword he stretched toward her. She could only imagine what the boy might be thinking. Were she to have found someone tied up in Mother's house by her own stepfather, she would have been terrified, too.

Kirra pushed her pain aside and threw on her best smile. "Oh, hello. How are you?"

His eyes widened and his shaking worsened. Clearly, this boy hadn't the same reckless abandon as his father. To him, she was nothing more than an invader to his home, someone to be feared. If someone were spreading lies to make children fear her, she would have to humanize herself.

"My name is Kirra. What's yours?"

"Rayan," he said without hesitancy, but the trepidation in his voice was great.

"Rain? Like the weather."

"No. Ray- _an._ "

"Oh, of course," Kirra laughed. "Silly me."

"What are you?"

" _What_ am I? I don't understand."

"The boys say you're a monster."

"A monster? Now, who's being silly? Have you ever heard of any monsters named Kirra before?"

"No, but…" Rayan thought about that for a moment before jutting out his sword once more in a show of bravery. "That don't mean you ain't a monster. I never met one."

Her first thought had been to say, "Neither have I," but that would have been untrue. She'd laid her eyes upon several monsters the night before, one of which shared this boy's blue eyes. Where was he, by the way? Did he know his son had braved facing a monster all alone?

"Now, really, Rayan. Do I look like a monster?"

The sword twisted awkwardly in hand. "Well, no, but, monsters can change shape."

Kirra nodded with a sigh, dully remembering the early morning. "I must concede to you on that point. They do indeed."

"So, what kind of monster are you?"

"If you must know…"

She realized this boy wouldn't believe her if she told him she was human. For all she knew, he thought of himself as human. For all she knew, he _was_ human, having inherited none of his father's unique qualities. She had to find a way to get him to trust her.

She continued with a proud smile. "…I'm a tent elf."

"A tent elf?" Rayan had lost his fear, but he wasn't about to lower his sword. "Never heard of it."

"Really?" she said in mock surprise. "I thought everyone had heard of tent elves by now. We're quite popular in small villages. We keep guard and make sure the inside of one's tent stays nice and tidy. We take record of where our masters keep everything so that we can retrieve it at a moment's notice. We can even sometimes read minds and know exactly what our masters have come in search of. Makes life for our masters easier."

"Prove it."

"If I must. Give me a moment to read your mind." Kirra closed her eyes, though she had no need to read the boy's mind, even if she could. She knew why he'd come and it wasn't out of some boyish curiosity or dare. He had one close friend in this tent and little Rayan was concerned the so-called "monster" would get to it.

"Ah-ha," she said, opening her eyes and looking back at the boy, the pain in her wrists momentarily forgotten. "I've got it!"

"You do?"

She lifted a chin toward the cot her captor had sat on earlier. Only now did its size register with her. This was Rayan's bed and underneath it was the toy horse. "What you came for is there. He's waiting for you underneath your bed."

The boy's gasp was barely audible, but it was there. It didn't take him long to find his toy huddled behind the leg of his cot. Sword lowered, he was down to all fours again in a heartbeat, snatching the toy in his quick hand and returning to his feet just as swiftly.

Rayan looked at her with wide-eyed wonder. "You really are a tent elf!"

"See! I told you!" She leaned forward on her last exclamation and suppressed a wince as best she could when the rope dug into her chafed skin. She didn't suppress it well enough by the look on the boy's face.

He leaned at his waist, eyeing the knots at her wrists and ankles. His sword threatened to go back up. "Then why are you tied up?"

Kirra cleared her throat and feigned a sheepish expression. "There was an unfortunate misunderstanding, you see. Your father thought I was attempting to steal something."

She pulled a quick, but believable sad face, because what she was about to say was about as close to the truth as she could possibly get without coming right out and saying it all in one hot breath.

"The truth is, I'm lost. I had a family and then, well, I lost them. Or they lost me. I don't know which. One minute they were all there. Next minute, they weren't. I lost my way in the big forest. One tree started to look like the other until nothing looked like home anymore. I saw this tent and I thought, if I cannot find home, then perhaps I could make myself useful, but then…" Kirra indicated her bonds with a shrug of her shoulders. "All I wanted to do was get home to my mother." Kirra sniffed for good measure, though she didn't have to try too hard to make it real.

"Did she die?"

The image of Mother that Hera had presented to her in the dream came unbidden. The blood. The horrific but silent scream. She couldn't banish the image or stop thinking of its implications. But she realized with a mix of elation and sorrow that Rayan wasn't talking about her imaginary tent-elf mother as much as he was talking of his own. The makeshift sword hung limply against his right leg, but the toy horse he held to his chest. A dreadful sadness had marched all over his fear and she knew without having to pretend to read his mind that he had lost his mother. His father hadn't made the toy. Seeing it closer, Kirra determined the age of it by its pulled threads, the bit of stuffing coming out of one hoof, and the crooked eye. Rayan's mother must have made it and now she was gone.

Kirra didn't know how to answer. She didn't want to play upon the boy's loss, but she also wanted his trust and she wanted to get free.

She eventually shrugged. "I wish I knew. It's the not knowing that's the worst, but…" She looked away momentarily, hating herself and yet knowing she had no other choice. "If you could set me free, I could find out. I could find my family." Indecision threatened to quell the emotion she had seen in the boy, and she needed to get herself free. "I didn't steal anything. I promise!"

"But, I don't want Papa to get mad at me."

"He won't, not once you tell him my story."

"Why didn't _you_ tell him your story?"

He almost had here there. "I did, but he didn't believe me. Most adults don't. They think they find things all by themselves. They don't realize the tent elves do all the work. Only children believe in the tent elves. Will you please help me? Help me get home to my mother."

She couldn't see it, but a memory was reliving itself somewhere behind his eyes. A vague one surely, like her own memory of her father spinning her in the air, but the memory was alive. Could he see her face? Or was she just a shape and a color? Whatever he saw, it helped him come to a decision.

"Okay," Rayan said with a nod and went to his knees at her feet. He started in on her ankles first.

"Thank you, Rayan. You are so brave to do this for me." A sudden fear washed over her when she thought of what Rayan's father said. "Do you think you can undo the knots?"

"Yes," he said while his fingers made short work of the rope around her ankles. "These are Papa's special knots. He taught me how to make them."

The rope was soon lying in a heap at her feet. Kirra groaned and stretched out her legs. She wondered if she would even be able to walk on them. "Now, my wrists. Please hurry, Rayan."

He had scooted behind her. "Okay, I'm trying, but the tentpole is in my way."

The words were barely out of his mouth when the blinding white light of day entered the tent like a beam of immortal light from Olympus itself. Temporarily blinded, but not deaf, Kirra heard the cry behind her.

" _Rayan!"_

This wasn't a growl of rage or even a warning. Kirra heard fear in the voice of her captor, plain and simple. The fingers that worked at the rope tearing into her skin were whisked away and when Kirra's eyes acclimated to the dusky interior of the tent, it was to see Rayan caught in his father's arms.

* * *

His belly once again sated, Iolaus made his way onto the streets of this little hamlet outside Thebes. Life here had gone back to normal as it often does in the wake of disaster, even disaster staged by the queen of the gods. It was good to see that the people weren't going to let it get them down. If anything thing had changed, it was that villagers weren't going about town as carefree as they had the day before. People were on edge, waiting for the other sandal to drop, the next disaster to strike. The presence of Thebian troops had increased, and if it had increased here, Iolaus could only imagine what it must be like within Thebes itself.

Being a former soldier, it piqued his interest to see what the city of Thebes would do to protect itself from the whims of Hera, but now wasn't the time to gallivant in the direction of Thebes. It was high time Iolaus set out to hunt for Hercules if they were to get down to the bottom of this unprovoked attack and then onto the reason they came here—to meet with family and a have a little reunion of sorts. It had been at least six months since he last saw Jason and Alcmene. Kirra, too. More important to Iolaus, however, was the need to discover why Hercules hadn't returned to the village. He was starting to get worried. Herc wasn't the sort to turn down hospitality. Maybe once, yeah. But twice in a row? Supper? And now breakfast, too? Something about it didn't rest well on Iolaus's shoulders.

He wasn't about to air his concerns, though, not with Vedos walking close beside him. Iolaus had said his good-mornings and his goodbyes to Vedos and his family on his way out of their home, but the village leader had followed him. What unnerved him was that Vedos's right-hand man, Avernus, had stationed himself at Iolaus's right not soon after they left the house. His lips were drawn tight as a straight line and his brows met together in a worried scowl.

Vedos didn't look any better, but he drew an arm around Iolaus and gave him a smile as forced as the ones Iolaus gave to the man's amorous eldest daughter the night before _and_ over breakfast. Sweet enough, she certainly was, and she could cook the meat off the bones of a pig with such flavor any single man might seriously consider taking her for a wife. Zebina had one setback—she was huge. Not in girth. She wasn't big around. She was tall. Iolaus had strained his neck muscles every time he looked at her. He reckoned she was taller than Hercules and probably just as board shouldered. No way. He liked his women experienced, not colossal. Not that he would have said any of that to Vedos. Besides, there seemed to be something more important on his mind.

"Iolaus, if it weren't for you and Hercules, I'd be standing in a pile of ashes about now."

The sensible voice of Hercules whispered in his ears to humbly shoo the village leader's thanks away. What they did yesterday wasn't a hero's job. Anybody with an open heart to the plight of the innocent would have done what they did. Iolaus shooed sensible Hercules away instead.

"You're welcome, and don't mention it. It's a good thing we happened to be on the road here when it happened." Now that he thought about it, maybe it hadn't been such a coincidence. "What does Hera have against you anyway?"

Iolaus half expected him to shake his head and profess to be just as curious. Vedos wasn't confounded. He was shameful. "Well," he began hesitantly. "This village and all the neighboring ones…" He looked down at his feet as he walked. "We haven't been keeping up the temple."

"That's no cause for an unprovoked attack," Iolaus said, not caring if he angered Hera. She could zap him if she wanted. He wasn't going to change his sentiment. Yet, he couldn't stop himself from glancing up warily.

"Exactly what I've been saying," Avernus said at Iolaus's right. "This is the birthplace of Hercules, and if we chose not to support the monster that slaughtered his family, then that's our choice."

"It's persecution," Vedos said, apprehension visible in the lines around his eyes. "But it's not all that's worrying me."

Iolaus eyed an agitated Avernus but turned his questions to the village leader. "Something else going on I should know about?"

Vedos had long hair that cascaded down his shoulders in rippling waves. When he nodded in answer to Iolaus's question, those long tendrils moved along with the bobbing of his head like a waterfall of dark hair.

"I didn't want to talk about it in front of the family, but I heard something last night during the festivities that concerned me."

Iolaus stopped short and almost sighed in relief. Is that all it was?

"Look, Vedos, I'm sorry Hercules couldn't make it. You really can't blame him what with all the memory this place brings back for him. Trust me, he'll be back. He's probably out at the old homestead. His mother and Jason are supposed to meet him there."

Vedos shook his head. "No, that's not it at all. Tell Hercules my thoughts are with him, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

A querulous sensation rumbled in his belly. "Then, what is it?"

"A traveler arrived last night from back Corinth way." Vedos jerked a thumb over his shoulder as though Corinth were just a hop, skip, and a jump. "Avernus here told him about what happened yesterday and by the gods, if he didn't have a story to tell."

Iolaus cast a curious look at Mister-right-hand-man. Avernus didn't miss a beat, taking up right where Vedos left off. "Man said he'd been outside the city walls when it happened. The sky darkened and the wind blew hot like a furnace. There were explosions, fires, and the people were running like mad trying to get out of the city."

That querulous sensation turned into a full upset. Iolaus hoped it was the breakfast of biscuits and goat's milk gravy not agreeing with him. "This happened in Corinth?"

Avernus nodded. "Not two days ago. The man said he came this way to barter because the city had shut its doors. There are scores dead to hear his tale."

It was on the tip of his tongue to mutter, "By the gods," were it not for the places his mind went immediately after. Corinth. Alcmene lived not far outside the city. An hour's walk, at most. Did something happen, something that Hercules might have learned of during the night? Could that be why he hadn't returned?

A fire lit in the soles of Iolaus's boots. He was about to bid another goodbye to his companions and go in a hurried search of Hercules when out of the milieu of villagers, a man came running and calling the village leader's name.

 _Now what?_ Iolaus thought. He dashed the thought to pieces as soon as he saw the wild-eyed and pale-faced man searching the crowd. The people, still on edge from the day before, picked up on the fear oozing from the man's pores in streaks of grimy sweat.

"Vedos!" he screamed, working the people shopping in the square into a frenzy. Women gathered their children. Vendors began to close up their shops. But the man never quieted his cry.

"She's terrible! _Terrible!_ "

He seemed not to see the people. He seemed not to notice that he was sending people scattering to the safety of their homes. He was possessed of only one thought—find Vedos.

Iolaus held out his hands, hoping to halt the wild man before he plowed headlong into the very man he sought, which would send the already terrified people into a stampede. "Hey, hey, hey, take it easy, friend."

"No, you don't understand! She's deadly!"

" _She?"_

Iolaus knew women could be deadly. He'd seen ample proof many times in his life, but he'd never seen any man so acutely terrified of a woman unless that woman happened to be Xena. He'd seen plenty men flee from her in terror. Something told him Xena wasn't his worry.

Vedos took the man by shoulders. "Yannis, calm down. Tell me what happened?"

The man took a deep breath, swallowed and tried to calm the fear that coursed through him like poison, but his words continued to come out in a staccato fashion between heavy breaths. "Worse than I ever seen." He pointed behind him and swallowed again. "At the Hera temple."

That was all Iolaus needed to hear. Hera. To hear her name cried twice in as many days did not bode well. He had a feeling his day was about to get worse.

"They rounded us up like cattle," the man continued. "Hera's temple guards. They forced us to kneel and worship. This—this _thing_ , she just appears from the flame of the sacrificial altar and says we are to worship Hera or die. But Perdius, from the next village, he hit her from behind with a sword. Split her like a melon, he did. Fire shot out from her insides and she just—" He cringed at whatever imagery replayed itself in his mind's eye. "She just pulled herself back together."

As each and every word poured from the man's trembling lips, the weight of what he was hearing compounded upon Iolaus. What he now carried felt heavier than anything Atlas hefted onto his shoulders. This man's story sounded eerily familiar. _Too_ familiar, but it proved one thing. Hera was on the move. These weren't random attacks. It stunk of strategy and Hera never strategized better than when she was out for the blood of his best friend.

Yannis, still shaking from head to toe began to speak three words he didn't know how to finish, not with Iolaus standing there. "She said she was…"

His silence pulled Iolaus back into the conversation as quickly as an arrow shot from a bow. "What? What did she say?"

"She said she was gonna…kill Hercules."

This wasn't eerily familiar. This wasn't even déjà vu. This was the past on repeat. Iolaus knew only one word. It passed through his mind like that arrow and with just as much devastation.

 _Enforcer._

"I gotta warn him."

He shot from Vedos and his band of wary men, even as they cried for him to wait. He had to find Hercules and he couldn't waste a single second on goodbyes this time. _He's at the old homestead,_ he told himself _. He has to be. Please, let him be at the old homestead._

The sand was soft under his feet. He could remember running barefoot in this sand. If he closed his eyes, he could still see his children's footprints alongside his own. Hercules didn't close his eyes. Sweet memories were sometimes too bitter to bring back to the mind, not when he was this close to that old pain of loss.

"This is where I took the kids to swim," he said.

He and his mother walked arm in arm along the shore with Jason, staring out over the water. The lake hadn't changed much since the last time he'd been here. The bank was a bit more eroded than he remembered, but the stretch of the lake, the reflection of the sun upon its surface, the red-breasted geese and the golden-eye ducks squawking near the shore, even the rugged peaks in the distance were still the same. The only thing that had changed was time, and himself.

"I remember," his mother said. There was a wistful sense about her. Why couldn't he revel in his memories the way she did?

Hercules gave it a try—"Ilea took to water like a mermaid"—and found it comforting to say her name again, aloud, in front of those who once knew her. Some sweet memories remained sweet no matter what time and vengeance did to them, and that was good.

"What about the boys?" Jason asked.

"They loved coming to spend a day at the lake, too, but for different reasons." Once the memories came back, they came back in a flood. Not an overwhelming flood, but a cleansing one. "Klonus always came with his fishing pole at the ready."

"Something he picked up from his Uncle Iolaus," his mother added.

Jason laughed. "And Aeson?"

"Aeson didn't like the water much, but he loved playing in the sand. He used to build castles. For his age, he had quite an eye for detail. Deianeira and I always thought he'd become an artist one day, like Daedalus."

Mother touched his forearm. "This will always be your home, Hercules, no matter where you travel."

He mumbled a reply. He wasn't sure he believed that anymore. At one time, yes, but now? Now, all of Greece was his home. Wherever he happened to lay his head was his home. He had to keep moving. To stay still meant the old pain had the right to creep back into his heart. Keeping busy. Helping people. That was the key to maintaining his sanity, to keeping his focus and his happiness.

But Jason had a different idea. "Maybe you're getting ready to settle down again."

Hercules turned an amused look at his friend. "Aren't you the same man that taught me to chase adventure no matter where it led me?"

"And I meant it," Jason said with a good-natured laugh. "But it sounds like you've forgotten the more important lesson."

"Really? And what's that?"

He may have asked it with all the mirth this trip to Thebes continued to allow him, but Hercules already knew the answer. He knew it the second his mother looked up at her husband with nothing but adoration.

Jason put his arm around Alcmene. "A warrior can find greater comfort in his own home."

A knowing glance passed between Jason and his mother, one that spoke of the kind of comfort Hercules hadn't known in some time.

When they had attended the Academy together, the mere idea of Jason marrying his mother would have been comical, if not downright scary. Now, he couldn't think of a better man for his mother. They were perfect for each other the way he and Deianeira had been. It wasn't that he had given up on the idea of becoming a husband and father again. Hercules thought of Nemesis and what could have been. It was the closest he had come to settling down again, but if he were honest with himself, when Nemesis said she needed time to figure her life out, he hadn't been terribly disappointed. He hadn't been ready then, and he didn't know if he was ready for that sort of life now.

"I haven't forgotten, Jason," he said. "It's just that kind of life seems so far away now."

"For a while there, I thought you and Kirra…"

Hercules laughed in response. "That sounds like something Iolaus would say."

Mother chastised Jason with a swat to his arm. "Jason, be serious."

"I am being serious. We both know Kirra has feelings for Hercules."

"She's only come out of her teenage years. Girls her age develop crushes. It's only natural and I'm sure she'll grow out of it."

"What do you think Hercules?"

Hercules forced a smile. "I think you're both right. Kirra does, or did, have feelings for me." He heard his mother's intake of breath and watched her bring a hand to her mouth. The events of the past several months and Kirra's personality changes were coming together in her mind. "She told me the last night I spend at the house. I can't be what she wants in me and I broke her heart."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mother asked.

"Because it wasn't for me to tell. I didn't want to add the extra burden on her. I'm sorry, Mother, but you were right, too. What she feels for me is just an infatuation, and eventually, she will grow out of it. Kirra is a smart girl. It's probably good that she's moving on. I just wish she had given me a chance to say goodbye."

"I hope we get to see her again one day," his mother said.

"Me, too." Though in his heart of hearts, Hercules didn't hold out much hope. Kirra's letter said it all.

"So, there's no chance of it then?" Jason asked. "You don't share the same feelings for her?"

"I do have feelings for Kirra, just not the kind she would have wanted. I just don't think it's in me right now."

Mother rested her head on his arm. "Do you think you could ever let yourself have that chance again?"

"Mother, I ask myself that same question every day."

A deeper truth existed behind his statement, one he couldn't reveal to his mother. However close someone got to him, whatever the relation—be it mother, brother, friend, lover, wife or daughter—sooner or later, that person would wear a target on their back. It wouldn't be visible. No one would see it as they walked down the road or partied at a festival or shopped skeins of blue fabric for a new dress. But Hercules would see it. He would know. For that reason alone, Hercules would never marry again and he wouldn't bring another child into this world. As long as Hera sat on her throne, she would ensure that everything and everyone he loved would never be safe.

It had been years since he'd run through this particular neck of the woods. Everything looked the same and yet didn't. The trees rushing past him were perhaps more plentiful than he remembered, but the path he'd worn through them in his Academy days hadn't changed. Someone else had beaten a path through these woods in the years since. Academy students, like himself? Or kids out playing? Iolaus didn't know and he hadn't the time to ponder it.

His mind raced with too many other worrying questions. Dread at the reason Hercules had never come back to the village had already worked its way into his heart and now it was taking over his mind. Was he too late? Had something already happened to Hercules? Or to Alcmene and Jason? To Kirra? She was an innocent in all this. They were all innocents to Hera's wrath.

Iolaus had planned to stick to the road, the same road Hercules likely took back to his home yesterday, and all the years before, from boyhood to young adulthood, but he changed his mind midway. The road hadn't been full of travelers, but the bends and turns had slowed and tired him. A straight run he could maintain, so he'd diverted into the woods. A sharp jag between trees here or there he could handle. He was good at it, had perfected the art of the straight run even in rough terrain. He saw everything, heard the smallest sounds, his senses heightened to take in tons of information he might not pay much attention to if he were walking leisurely. A knotty tree root lost in the debris of fallen leaves. The rutting call of a buck. Protruding rocks. The scamper of squirrels in the trees above him. Iolaus saw it all, heard it all.

Until _it_ found him.

He should have seen it coming. Before him had been nothing but open terrain dotted by a few swaying trees he could easily have dodged, and yet Iolaus came to a body-crunching halt. White light exploded behind his eyes. Something snapped. Warmth gushed over his lips and chin. His head seemed to expand to the size of a watermelon. And like blood, dread seeped out of him until his entire world went black.

Two minutes. Three minutes. Hell, for all he knew, he could have been out for hours. Iolaus had a bad feeling his nightmares hadn't waited for unconsciousness this time. Dread hit him with the weight of a crashing wave. Not for Hercules anymore. This was the dread of his nightmares, the images he couldn't quite touch. Trees. Blood. The cold flash of silver, and the crunch of feet in dead leaves. Something told him the nightmare had walked from his mind and into his waking world.

Iolaus's head still felt like a melon. His nose was broken. Beneath his eyes, its blurry form wasn't in the place he remembered it. The warmth he remembered was his own blood. It had poured from his nose in a torrent and its coppery bitterness had tainted his taste buds. His nose still trickled with it, but he forced himself up anyway and saw what his dreams had hidden from him.

He hadn't run into a tree as he had initially thought. He'd run into a _She_ , the one-word description Yannis had used to describe her. Iolaus could think of a few more. Like an iron forge from head to toe. Head of flame. Body sleek and built, bristling with the muscle of a strong man. Armor of beaten and riveted iron, with the sheen of silver and the sharp-edged deadliness of a sword. She was everything the original Enforcer was not and she was coming right toward him.

Head like a melon or not, Iolaus jumped to his feet, ready to meet her head on. He didn't make a habit of punching women in the face, but for this one, he'd make an exception. He threw everything into it. His worry for Hercules. His fear for himself. And the ugly rage that had blown up in him for every sick thing Hera had ever done. He took it all out on that iron face.

And wished to Mount Olympus and every one of its gods that he hadn't. Punching that ugly face had been like punching an anvil. Iolaus had time to grimace and contemplate the fact that he'd just broken nearly every bone in his hand when it took him by the collar of his vest and pulled him forward with ease. He was feeling her beat down like he'd gone several rounds with a tiger, but she wasn't in the slightest of pain. His punch had done nothing to her. This was going to go about as well as his fight with the first Enforcer.

"Tell me where Hercules is," she said with a voice as deep as the depths of the ocean.

Breathing through his battered nose was impossible and talking would be worse, but Iolaus didn't let it stop him from muttering, "Never."

The word was out his mouth less than a second before she tossed him like a ragdoll. This time, he did hit a tree. It met his back in one solid blow, knocked the wind and any hope of winning from him, and then he dropped. Not to his knees. There was more space between him and the ground than he thought. The back of his legs clipped a branch and he spun three-sixty, landing face down in a thin cushion of dead leaves.

They weren't cushioned enough. His forearms took the brunt of the fall, and for a moment, he worried he might have broken them, too, but they supported him well enough. He looked up to see her cock her head at him like a well-trained dog. He saw the words in her eyes clear as day. _Not dead yet?_ Could he have answered, he would have told her, _No, not dead. Not yet. I'm not gonna win, but I'm sure in Tartarus not gonna give up, either._

She saw his answer just as clearly and moved toward him to either finish him off or strong arm the answer out of him. As long as he still had strength left in him, he wasn't going to give her the chance to do either. He had to fight!

Not for himself. For Hercules.

She was two steps away. Iolaus scrambled to his feet, ignoring the stinging pain in his back, and grabbed at the first fallen branch he saw. It was still fresh. Hard, and long enough to use as a cudgel. Maybe it will work where his fists hadn't. Iolaus raised one end of the solid branch with all his force and brought it up in one lashing blow to her jaw. He thought to see her cheek torn open, blood, fire, whatever was in her gushing out, but as his eyes settled upon her pristine skin, he saw his blow had done nothing. It hadn't even left a mark. But it only took one backhand to upend his world, re-break his already swollen nose, and send him flying face first right into another tree.

Seconds passed. He didn't know up from down, left from right. But he knew she was behind him. One crunch of dead leaves was all it took to register that the branch was still in his hand, that he was still alive and that if he didn't get moving, he wouldn't be.

Bringing the opposite end of the branch around the tree, Iolaus grabbed it and used it as leverage to pull himself upward faster than he thought his body capable. Thighs wrapped around its trunk for dear life, he moved fast, like a monkey. He'd never run from a fight in his life, but he saw no other recourse here. There was nothing like the will to stay alive to pump the adrenaline in heart-stopping measures throughout the body. Maybe it would give him the strength needed to drop from above. His weight combined with force might just be what would undo her.

 _Because if there's one thing the worlds needs to know about Iolaus of Thebes, it's that he never runs from a fight!_

For all the courage that flowed along with the adrenaline, Iolaus never got a chance to try. The tree he'd once thought sturdy enough to protect him began to lean, and before he could comprehend what was happening, the tree whiplashed, falling over one way with such force, the momentum threw him in the opposite direction. Iolaus met the ground on his back.

He heard a crack and hoped it was just the popping of a vertebra, but the wicked stinging that coursed his lower back told him it was worse. She was coming toward him again, each of her steps the steps of a giant. He had to get up. He couldn't quit. The pain encompassing every limb, every muscle, couldn't matter. Hercules's life depended upon his own.

Iolaus forced himself as far as his knees, but she brought him back down with one arm. It sliced through the air like the edge of a sword and came down on his shoulder with enough force to feel as if his entire arm had been severed from his body.

"Last chance, little man," he heard somewhere above him. "Where's Hercules?"

In another time and another place, that would have lit a fire in Iolaus until he couldn't see straight, but right then, he couldn't think straight. He knew only the tremendous pain shooting through every nerve. One hand didn't work and his lower back was a lost cause. If he made it out of this, he'd never walk straight again. He thought of never walking at Hercules's side, never helping another person in need, or never wooing another beautiful woman, and oddly, it didn't bother him. He was okay with it. An overwhelming heat had bloomed in his abdomen. Something inside had ruptured. He wasn't a surgeon or a healer, but he had a feeling he wasn't going to live out the day.

Iolaus was okay with that, too, because he _had_ walked at Hercules's side. He _had_ helped more people than probably any other mortal ever had, and he _had_ wooed enough beautiful women to fill his memories in the Elysian Fields (if that's where he ended up). But one thing he hadn't ever done was give up the fight. That wasn't going to happen until he was dead.

He struggled to his feet, feeling things pop and move inside that weren't supposed to pop and move. "Okay, I'll tell you," he said in a voice Iolaus didn't recognize as his own. It sounded foreign, worn from overuse. The voice of the dead. But the dead didn't strategize. The dead didn't keep fighting even when they knew they were beaten.

Iolaus stood, but not straight. He couldn't straighten his back. He rested one hand on his knee and beckoned her with the other. "You just have to…" He took a painful breath. "…come a little closer."

She leaned forward at the waist like a wooden toy on wooden hinges. Iolaus didn't know what he was going to do, or what trying to fight her was going to accomplish. It was no longer about fighting at that point. It was about stalling. He wasn't going to make it to Hercules in time. As long as he stood toe to toe with Hera's monster, he would never see Hercules again, but at least it would give him the time he might not have had otherwise.

This wasn't going to feel good, but he had to make a good show of it.

Iolaus lunged for a headbutt. She sidestepped him with ease and used her arm like a mace right across the chest. He felt himself flip end over end, the ground rushing up to meet him at a speed not safe for any mortal human body. Iolaus crumbled. Rib bones snapped. Their pointed edges dug into organs that weren't meant to be pierced. Something that felt like the weight of hundreds of fists came down upon his back. The stinging turned into white-hot pain, filleted him from neck to tailbone.

"Eat dirt," he heard followed by laughter.

It was the same one from his dream. Callous, without emotion. The last thing Iolaus remembered before darkness took him was that he had finally given in to her demands. He _had_ eaten dirt. He could feel it in his mouth, on his tongue, mixing with the taste of blood that had come from his nose and risen up into his mouth from deep within.

Alcmene laid a blanket on the sand near the shore. Jason had gone to get the supplies for a picnic from the wagon parked nearby, and now his mother was setting out slices of bread and wedges of cheese. She had even removed a decanter of sweet wine from her basket.

Hercules looked down at her kneeling on the blanket, mussing up her blue dress to make everything perfect. "Mother, you always knew how to put together the perfect picnic."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense. Anyone with a hungry belly could do just the same."

"I just wish you'd let me help you."

She swiped a hand in the air. The job wasn't a hassle at all, her action said, and the last thing she needed was help. Typical, motherly response. Hercules shook his head at Jason coming down the slope of the shore with another blanket in one hand and a vine of fresh grapes in the other.

"Being stubborn again, is she?" he asked.

"As always."

Jason handed him the blanket. "Here, let's not let her have all the fun."

Hercules began setting out the second blanket alongside the first.

"Shouldn't we wait for Iolaus?" Alcmene asked while removing several goblets from her basket.

Jason nodded in agreement. "Seems like he would have been here by now."

"You know what?" Hercules said, slapping his palms onto his thighs. "You're probably right. I'd better go check on him. He's probably over by the house right now wondering where we are."

Hercules had said that with as lighthearted a laugh as he could. An odd feeling had crept into his gut at the mention of Iolaus. It was rather odd that his friend hadn't found him yet. Hercules had given Iolaus the morning, knowing his first thought after awakening would have been breakfast. Besides family, the outdoors and a pretty girl, Iolaus loved food. In fact, he had an ongoing passionate love affair with just about anything edible.

On the wake of that laugh, Hercules added, "Iolaus would die if we started without him. Be right back."

"We'll wait for you," his mother said.

Hercules turned to head up the slope to make the short journey toward the old homestead when he spotted a familiar head of blonde curls coming over the dune.

"There he is," Hercules called to his mother and Jason over his shoulder. "What took you so long, Iolaus? We were about to—"

Hercules didn't continue. The broken voice that croaked his name was nothing like the confident man he'd left at the village the day before. The person coming into view was bloodied, nose swollen to twice its size, an eye swollen shut, lip busted. One arm hung limp at his side like dead weight and the other was crooked across a chest striated with purplish bruises. He moved hunched over through the sand as though sheer will itself pulled him along.

Behind him, Hercules heard his mother gasp and Jason cry "by the gods" as if calling them out might change what they saw. But nothing could do that.

"Hercules…" Iolaus called, his voice carried away from the breeze coming off the lake.

"Iolaus?"

Hercules heard himself speak, but it didn't seem real. None of it did. Not until Iolaus went down on one knee and the rest of him crumbled like a perilously stacked house of playing cards. The slope of the shore was steep enough that he rolled, arms and legs flopping as might a fish pulled from the water. Hercules went down to the sand and caught him up in his arms before he rolled right into the lake.

He had no words for what he saw, even as Jason flanked Iolaus, muttering, "Oh gods," and his mother knelt beside Iolaus to run her fingers through his hair and comfort him.

"It's okay, Iolaus, we're right here, stay with us," he heard her say, one word stringing into the next as though each promise would make everything better. Hercules knew better. Jason knew better. Even Iolaus knew better. The life Hercules had seen in his eyes just the day before was fading. His breaths came in thick and raspy gasps, caving his chest so deeply inward one would think his ribcage was gone. Blood coated his teeth and leaked from the corner of his mouth. He was bleeding internally.

There was no changing it, nor was there any hope of stopping it. Iolaus was dying, and it wouldn't be long. He would die right here in his arms. There wasn't time to comfort him before he passed on. As much as it pained him to do so, Hercules had to know.

"Iolaus, what happened?"

He watched his brother's fading gaze shift with great effort from Alcmene to Jason then back him. He swallowed, tried to speak, but no words would form. He was fighting, fighting every second to keep his heart beating and his brain functioning to say what he carried his failing body all the way over here to say, and with every slowing beat of Iolaus's heart, Hercules felt his own begin to boil.

"There's…" he began, the first word coming from his swollen lips in a slur. "…another Enforcer…" He swallowed down the blood that continued to rise into his mouth and took another congested breath. "…at Hera's temple…worse than before." He hitched in a painful breath, his body lurching like a frog's legs in the frying pan, and as his breath wheezed between bloodied lips and the life in his eyes faded, Iolaus's dying words were, "She's after you."

The will that held his friend's head straight while he said his final words left him along with his life. His muscles relaxed. The pain eased from his features and his head lolled. Iolaus stared without sight past Alcmene to some distant place that only the dead knew.

"Iolaus," he called to ears that could no longer hear and shook the body in his arms. "Come on, Iolaus. Come on!" Still, he shook him, and Iolaus's head bobbed as lifelessly as a doll's, his eyes as sightless as the blind.

"Hercules," Jason pleaded, hand on his shoulder. "Stop. He's gone."

It wasn't real. Not right away, not until his mother began to cry. He watched her pet the top of Iolaus's head and touch his chest. Her hand brushed against the pendant Iolaus had told them the story of the last time they had all been together.

"Oh no," she cried, tears falling from her eyes and onto Iolaus's face, mixing with the blood that had begun to cake there. "No, not again."

"He was a brave warrior," Jason said, his voice thick with emotion. "He put off dying so he could warn you."

The past rolled over him like the heavy, dark clouds of a thunderstorm. It was happening again. Hera had reduced the mother of his children to scorched linens and charred bones. Their screams still rang in his ears. Kirra nearly burning to death had stained into his memory. Now Iolaus, taken by the flame of Hera's vengeance. And each time, with all the strength given to him by Zeus, he was the powerless one. He was the one left to deal with the aftermath.

Not anymore. Not ever again. He was done being Hera's victim.

"I'm not going to let him die."

Hercules gathered Iolaus's lifeless body up into his arms and screamed to the heavens and to anyone that could hear him for miles around.

" _Hades!"_

* * *

 **Thanks to guardianM3 and Siampie1990 for your reviews. If you've been lurking the Kirra series for a long time, believe me when I say that reviews equal motivation, and motivation equals more chapters. I'd love to hear from you and get your take on what you like or even what you don't like about the story so far. Please let me know and thanks for reading.**


	9. Chapter 9

**I apologize for the lack of updates. Here's the next chapter, finally edited to my satisfaction.**

* * *

 **Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

"What did you do to my son, witch?"

A hateful accusation twisted the handsome features of the boy's father. The dull blue flame of his eyes threatened to ignite into a raging fire, bringing Kirra back to that day under the roiling clouds of Chalcis. She could practically smell the spark of electricity in the air and the stench of oil on her hair and clothes. She had been tied up much the same as she was now. Only then, death by flame had been imminent. Now, Kirra didn't know what might happen.

"Nothing," she answered.

" _Nothing?_ You having him untying your bonds and you call that _nothing!_ What did you do to him?!"

"Leave her alone!"

Of all the people Kirra thought might come to her rescue, she least expected Rayan. His father's fear should have ignited the boy's own. He should have been crying. Instead, he had his father's collar gripped in his little hand and there was more strength in his tone than there was in his father's voice. For whatever reason, Rayan still trusted her. Perhaps she _had_ bewitched him, but she hoped what prompted him to act in her behalf was the terror she had of his own father.

"Don't be mean to her, Papa. She's not a monster! She's just a tent elf."

"Tent elf?"

"Yeah," Rayan said like there was nothing more rational in the world. "I have to help her get home to her mother!"

"For that, you were quick to free her?" Her captor gave her an unimpressed glare. "I get your sorcery now, girl."

If she weren't in so much pain, Kirra might have laughed. Instead, she held onto her courage by a rope much thinner than the ones that bound her. "What sorcery? He was looking for his toy horse and I helped him find it. It's you who should be ashamed. Keeping a captive in the same place where your child lays his head."

Kirra didn't miss his flinch, but he covered it with a cock his head and the narrowing his eyes. "He must learn of the evils in this world some time."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a cry rose from somewhere within the camp. Kirra ignored the insult rising at the base of her gut. After everything she had experienced and endured since leaving Endor, the last thing anyone had a right to call her was evil. But she held the insult in its place. Her enigmatic captor had just gone as rigid as petrified wood at the sound, and Kirra used it to her advantage.

"It would appear he isn't the only who must learn of the evils in the world."

The look he gave her was nothing short of murderous. "I've learned more of the world than you will ever know."

A flurry of voices, a rustle of tent cloth, and then, "Sir!"

A man stepped into view. Tattoos snaked over a scantily clad and muscled body, wearing little more than leather armor over his most vulnerable parts. His markings made him appear more reptilian than human and dark hair ran in one spiky strip down the center of an otherwise bald scalp. Kirra had expected plate armor and perhaps a helmet of steel, but this one dressed worse than his master.

Her captor set the boy down at his side. "What is it?"

So intent was he on getting his answer that he didn't notice his son's diverted attention. Rayan's sad eyes were on her. Kirra saw apology there and a child's regret that he couldn't free her. She mouthed, _It's okay,_ and gave him the best smile she could given her situation.

"Torgeir has raised the alarm on the northern end of camp," the tattooed monster said beside her just as the pounding of many feet passed the tent outside.

"Damn!" He grasped his son's arm and moved for the tent opening. "Watch her! She moves one inch, make her regret it."

As her captor moved for the exit with the only person who'd shown her any kindness since she woke up, Snakeman looked down at her as if she were a rodent burrowing in the bushes. "Yes, sir," he said, elongating the S's connecting the two words. It said a rodent was exactly how he saw her, and he was the predator who would strike if she moved.

She obeyed. As much as she wanted to twist free of the slack she felt in her bonds, she knew the merest of attempts would be a mistake. She listened as her captor handed his son off to the other guard outside, telling him to "take him someplace safe." Kirra kept still, only venturing a look up at the reptile-like man standing over her.

"So, what are you supposed to be?" she asked with as much disdain as she could force into her expression. "A lizard?"

To her surprise, he chuckled. "I've heard you got a mouth on you." But his grin soon disappeared and his countenance returned to that of the predator. "You don't want to know what I am, little girl."

She could have cowered, could have slunk down as far as fear would take her (especially considering the cry of alarm rousing outside) but she dug for an ounce of the girl she once was. She searched for the girl who hadn't been afraid to call a king a "disgusting fat toad."

"What is it with everyone calling me 'girl'? I'll have you know I'm nineteen. Nearly twenty. And it would appear half the people in your camp think I'm a monster! That pushes me far from the realm of 'little girl.'"

"I beg to differ, my dear."

Kirra found that comment rather shocking, not simply because it was insulting and completely untrue, or because those words were too culturally refined to match the half-man-half-reptile standing before her, but because Snakeman's mouth hadn't moved an inch. He seemed to find the incident rather shocking himself for his eyes widened and his hand went for the sword at his waist.

He wasn't fast enough.

Kirra watched something oval-shaped and heavy rise out of the shadows, held aloft by two strong arms. It descended upon Snakeman's head before he ever had time to turn and investigate where the voice had come from. There was the crack of a clay pot, followed by the rolling back of Snakeman's eyes into his head, and then he crumbled to the ground like a rag doll.

For a moment, her little made up story of tent elves seemed to have come true, but what stepped from the shadows and over Snakeman's body wasn't a pointy-eared elf. This one wore a cloak, carried a crossbow, and moved with a lithe step that mirrored the man she'd seen in the tree during the early hours of morning, shooting arrows down at her feet. His intentions now were as vague as his features.

"Who are you?"

"Not to fear, my dear," said a voice from beneath the cloak that Kirra found vaguely familiar and reminiscent of a forgotten annoyance. The hood fell back. "Your rescue is here."

Kirra's lower jaw came unhinged. "Prince Asheraf?"

There was the goateed chin she remembered so well, and yet he looked so different without the trademark turban.

He grizzled at the name. "The prince is gone. You're talking to the King of Thieves, sister."

"What in the name of all the gods on Olympus are _you_ doing here?"

A disconcerted frown pushed his brows together, but he was down on his knees and his hands were working at her bonds before he bothered to respond. "No time for pleasantries. My distraction will only last for so long."

"Distraction?" Kirra asked over her shoulder. "You mean, that was you? What did you do?"

He heard the concern in her voice. "Nothing that will cause harm to life or limb, though if anybody deserved harm, it would be old Wolfy."

Kirra might have laughed at the moniker had her bonds not come away freely and her arms hadn't ached when she brought them to their rightful place at her sides. "Nergal's daggers, I presume?"

The prince tossed her bonds onto her lap as an answer. They were uncut. "How did you—?"

He stood. "Tricks of the trade, my dear. Let's worry about the specifics later." He grabbed her aching arms and pulled her up. "Think you can walk?"

A flurry of activity sounded outside the tent, shouting voices and running feet, which froze both of them for a second. The sounds receded, presumably toward the north end of camp.

"I'll do my best."

Her sheik-turned-thief-turned-rescuer pulled her to the edge of the tent where Rayan had entered. He didn't waste time crawling on all fours, though. From the folds of his cloak, he produced an ivory-handled dagger and turned a quick but mischievous grin her way.

"Nergal's dagger," he said and proceeded to rip a ragged gash into the tent cloth. He slipped through, taking her hand in his and pulling her right along with him.

Kirra shielded her eyes from the bright light of day and followed along dutifully, stepping lightly and hoping she didn't trip as soon as her bare feet hit the grass. The walking was easier than she thought it would be. Her legs were weak and aching, and the bottom of her feet stung with every bur and cut she'd received in her attempt to outrun first Nergal's soldiers and then Wolfy (she liked the nickname), but she was moving. That was what mattered.

Her mind went back two days ago to when the thief led her, hand-in-hand as they were now, away from Corinth and Hera's fire-breathing monster toward the entrance of a defunct water well. The entrance had been hidden well behind the statue of a deity labeled, _To an unknown god…_ She had almost laughed, both then and at the memory. (Those legendary religious Greeks, assuring they hadn't missed any one god.) But Kirra no more cared to laugh now than she did then. She was once more embroiled in a life or death escape from a monster, rescued by a man whose name she still didn't know.

It took little time for her eyes to adjust to the daylight outside, but once she did, it was like stepping into another world. Tents of various colors and sizes dotted a lush, green landscape. A stream trickled somewhere nearby in the heavy foliage. She could hear it. It was obviously a source of fresh water. Trees towered overhead, extending branches that provided enough of a canopy to keep the day bright but ward off the heat of the afternoon sun (or warm the morning in the winter when the foliage was thin).

This wasn't just a military settlement. These tents were homes, and what resided within them weren't monsters but families.

She had no trouble recognizing the typical creature comforts of everyday human life—awnings and handmade rocking chairs, gardens with growing vegetables, trees bearing fruit, even a white cat slipping beneath the base of a tent. None of these things would have seemed out of place had there been a woman rocking a baby in that rocking chair or a man tending those gardens and plucking fruit from the trees or a child playing with the cat. A village so colorful, so full of apparent life shouldn't appear so lifeless.

Just as she thought it, her rescuer came to a standstill behind a smaller tent (this one her favorite color—sky blue). A group of men and women, armed with sharp spears and dressed almost as scantily as Snakeman (though with a smidge more decorum) were passing on the opposite side. They were quietly but hurriedly huddling a group of frightened grey-haired elderly folk into a tent across the way.

Kirra felt sick at the thought of having contributed to the terror of old people. Their hearts weren't what they used to be. They could keel over any moment. Then she heard a voice say as quiet as a mouse from inside the tent they hid behind, "Mama, I'm scared," and her stomach turned.

The village wasn't so lifeless, after all. Just a step away, a mother huddled in fear with her terrified child. Kirra wasn't the only who guessed it, either. The thief-king cast an awkward glance over his shoulder, connecting with her briefly. He seemed to be thinking the same thing. They had terrified a village full of innocent people. It pricked at Kirra's conscience, but at least she wasn't the only one to blame.

"What did you do to scare these people?" she whispered her vehemence into his ear.

He gave her a smirk but didn't answer. Instead, he raised a pronounced chin to the two guards, bidding her to watch. Two went into the tent, but only one came out. The other one ran toward the north end of camp. Kirra connected the dots. There could be a guard stationed in each tent. Although Kirra had whispered, that didn't mean a guard didn't hear her.

The thief-king didn't give her mistake a chance to manifest. He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward a bank of trees and bramble. They hid behind shrubs with prickly leaves, white blooms and a healthy cluster of blackberries. Hunger led Kirra to swipe a few, but it didn't stop her from pulling her rescuer by the hood of his cloak.

"Listen, whatever your name is, while I appreciate being set free, I do not appreciate you terrorizing an entire village to do so. What did you do, and why are you here to begin with? Weren't you supposed to be running far away with your spoils?"

"Do you make a habit of looking a gift horse in the mouth or are you always this ungrateful?"

Kirra was grateful, but she was also curious. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been skipping lightly through the branches with Tauthé's possessions after having absconded from Kirra with the only thing he had ever given her—her trust in him. With that gone, Kirra had nothing to work with but what necessity required. Go with this strange man or get left behind for Wolfy and his friends. The former sounded more appealing, even if her rescuer was a liar and a thief.

She thought to give him a tart retort, but there was no point. He had her by the arm and was pulling her away from the trees before she could say a thing.

"You can ask questions later. If we don't make like geese and get the flock outta here, we'll both be wolf droppings before the day is out."

He was peering around the edge of a tree, gauging his chance to sprint when Kirra grabbed his lapel again.

"Wait," she hissed. "We can't leave yet."

He looked at her as if she was the one crazy person left in the world. Of course, Kirra knew for a fact that there many more than anyone cared to acknowledge.

"Why in Tartarus not?" he asked.

"Tauthé."

"You don't mean the slave girl?"

"Yes! She's here, too. I won't leave without her."

He squinted as one might were they attempting to see something in the distance, only what he saw wasn't visual. It was a memory from the not too distant past. What Kirra saw was the slave girl who wanted her daggers back, but based on his grimace, her rescuer was seeing something else entirely.

He pointed a sturdy finger at her. "Not on your life. That little monster is officially off my need-to-save list."

He made to leave and Kirra pulled him back again. "Would you stop doing that!"

"Either help me find her or go back to doing what you're good at, _Thief_."

His chiseled features hardened. "You don't get it, do you, Blondie?"

"Get what? That you're a thief _and_ a coward?"

"Name's Autolycus, by the way, and a coward wouldn't brave an army of shape-shifting warriors to save an ungrateful wretch like you, which, in case you hadn't noticed, I am attempting to do. Against my better judgment, I might add. And in the process of said duty, I glimpsed your little friend myself. She's here, all right. But if you think I'm going to risk my neck for a traitor, you've got another thing coming."

"Traitor? I hope you don't expect me to fall for one of your tricks—"

He grabbed her arm. What he said next brought a swift end to her argument. "She's one of them, Kirra."

Kirra felt her stomach drop. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about people who sprout fur and change into animals. I'm talking about someone who can transform from a pretty girl with cute braids to an animal with big claws and sharp teeth." When he saw her slack-jawed expression, he asked, "Didn't you see her? In the forest? The small one that gave one of Nergal's soldiers a makeover and gave you a chance at escape."

The sight came back to Kirra so swiftly from his description that she couldn't see the thief at all. She saw the furry animal with the cute mouse-like ears and the stripe of white running from the top of its head down to it snarling snout. She heard its growl and she saw it pounce onto the face of the soldier who had held Kirra to the ground.

"That can't be," she whispered, her voice barely present. "You're wrong."

"I only wish I were, but I saw her with my own two eyes. She's not human."

Kirra barely heard him. Her mind was busy replaying all her past interactions with Tauthé. She saw her crawling on all fours on the floor of Alcmene's living room and disappearing, only to reappear in the moonlight cast from the open window. She remembered the way Tauthé appeared out of nowhere when she was being attacked the next morning. She heard her in the hush of a quiet mid-morning forest: _"I've always been good at hiding. There have been times when I was able to sneak by Lady Shamshi unseen."_ And she remembered the last sight of her reaching for a low branch and the way her feet seemed to become one with the jutting root at the base of the tree. It all came together. Every word. Everything she ever did. Even the fact that her captor had known her name. Who else would have told him her name was Kirra.

"…and she didn't seem to give a hoot that I saw her changing, either," came the tail end of the thief's story, intruding on her thoughts.

Kirra had thought Tauthé capable of abilities honed from her life as a slave. Two days ago, she would have laughed in this man's face to hear such a tale, but after all she had seen since the start of this misadventure, she had no choice but to believe. Yet, she wasn't so gullible to believe everything that came out of his mouth, whatever his name was.

"So what? If what you're saying is true, _if_ she can turn into that…that thing…it doesn't make her a traitor. She was trying to protect me."

"Protect you or keep you alive for Wolfboy and his friends?"

Kirra shook her head. Otto- _whatever_ was trying to confuse her. She hadn't felt this torn since the night before when duty to Mother had overridden her obligation to Alcmene.

He sighed at her indecision. "Look, I may have been a thief most of my life, but a liar I'm not." When Kirra graced him with her most disdainful look, he added, "At least, not about something like this. Your _friend_ is at the north end of their camp. We just as soon raise our chins to their blades as go over there for her sake. Believe me when I tell you, Kirra, your friend is well cared for. I guarantee you she's gotten more food and water than you have." He took her wrists in both his hands and brought her reddened, chaffed skin up to eye level. "And she sure as Tartarus doesn't have these marks."

Kirra felt the whole world fall out from underneath her. Everything she'd come to believe in the last two days was a lie. How could she have been so stupid? She should be on the road to Endor, far away from the problems of a half-god and his family. She had become an unfortunate bystander in a jealous deity's scheme for vengeance. Where a fire-breathing monster failed to kill her, it would seem the false concern of a supposed friend would do the job.

A single tear of betrayal welled and spilled over onto Kirra's cheek. Only one other time had she ever felt so empty, so alone; and this time, her betrayer wasn't here to console her.

"Save your tears for somebody who deserves'em. We've gotta go. Now."

This time when he took her arm, Kirra let him. He pulled and she went dutifully wherever he led.

* * *

Breathing heavily. Snarled lip revealing fangs. The only thing calm about him was the settling dust his paws had kicked up in his wake. Every soldier hidden in the treetops or in the brush could see the hairs on his back standing on end. He was on edge, and if he was, they all would be. Every man, woman, and child in the Enclave knew what was at stake and how easily their comfortable life could change. It had happened before.

But it wasn't going to happen again. Not on his watch. Not ever.

Torgeir had taken up a station at the northwest corner where the rugged bark of tall pine trees blended perfectly with the pattern on his abdomen. The spiny hairs on all eight of his legs appeared as nothing more than a blight upon the tree.

"What have you seen?" the wolf asked just as the gruff breaths of a grizzly sounded at his flank.

"Nothing, sir." Torgeir's voice was a warbled, tremulous thing. It was the one thing he hated about his shape, but only because they had teased him mercilessly about it when they were youngsters.

"What is it?" the gruff grizzly asked.

"Torgeir was just about to tell me it was nothing."

A mandible twitched. "I _saw_ nothing, sir, but _something_ tripped two of our alarms."

"Has Ava seen anything?"

"She's up there, sir, but she hasn't reported back yet."

That raised the hair on his back. If Ava hadn't returned, it could only mean one of two things. Either she had found something for her hawk's eyes to spy on, or something had happened to her. Neither outcome suited him.

"I need to go out there, get a better look from the ground, check the traps."

"Not you, Cyneric," said the gruff voice of the bear.

Wolf's eyes, strikingly blue against a dark matt of fur, sliced toward the grizzly's dark brown ones like a blunt blade over flesh. "Says who, brother? You?"

The grizzly chuffed. "Says the clan, _brother_. You are our leader. You cannot place yourself in the way of harm. I will go and I will take Katzen."

A lithe step, stripes of orange and black, and a respectful nod from his most graceful of hunters were enough for Cyneric to back down. "Fine, but make it quick."

"Yes," the bear said without the epithet of "sir" the rest had coined.

The lack of it might have bothered a lesser man, but Cyneric had known that grizzled face since he was a boy; the same age as his son was now. Warin was his second in command and they had never bandied titles in all the time he'd know him. Still, there was something stilted in the way he spoke that didn't sit well with him.

The grizzly and his tigress companion moved into and blended with the wall of tall, green, forest plants and new-growth trees. They weren't so far gone that Cyneric couldn't send a rasp whisper.

"Warin?"

The bear's maw turned back in question, though the dark depths of his eyes didn't seek his leader out. "Yes?"

"Be careful."

A nod followed that wasn't as stilted and then the two of them were gone, lost to the forest, as was their way. Big or small. Pilous, pennate, or scale-plated. All of them knew how to disappear into the forest. Their ability to shift into another form had saved them many times in the past, but the threat was always there. The need to keep hidden, to keep any memory of them forgotten, had become imperative over the years. If people knew nothing of them, they remained relatively safe. Cyneric's worry came not from people, however. His worry centered on the elevated beings who claimed to protect and care for them. Many years had passed since he witnessed how they "cared" and he had never forgotten it. The effects of their so-called protection were still with the clan. He held no doubts that one day _She_ would come back, on whatever whim suited her fancy.

And so he watched, his pale blue wolf's eyes penetrating through the trees and the brush, waiting to see movement that was not of his kind and yet hoping he never would. Nothing stirred, not even from the movements of Warin and Katzen. He dropped to his belly, nose low to the ground to catch even the slightest whiff.

Again, nothing.

The only scent that filled his nostrils came from the tripped alarms. It wasn't a pleasant scent, either. Doe piss never was, but the trap was effective. Anyone crossing their borders would tip the bladder pouch holding it. They'd think they tripped over a carefully camouflaged branch, when in fact they'd set off an alarm that every single member of the clan with a good nose would smell from more than a mile away. Air currents would blow the scent their way in less than a minute, and when the intruders arrived, the clan would be ready for them.

An alarm hadn't been tripped in years. Rayan had been just an infant when the last infiltration occurred. The loss had been too many, too great.

A flutter of wings and a flash of the deepest bronze pulled Cyneric's icy gaze from the forest before him.

"Ava? Any news?"

The hawk cast him a beady glare. In this form, Ava didn't have a choice. Her curved beak clacked as she spoke. "I saw nothing, sir. Nothing near the traps. Nothing on the trees."

Cyneric tried not to sigh. Nothing again. Nothing was more disquieting than something in his estimation.

"But, I did notice something odd," Ava squawked adamantly enough to bring Cyneric up on his forelegs. "Idexer. He came out of your tent walking like he'd had one too many tankards of ale."

Cyneric was on all fours in a second, his body rigid, and his tail straight as a board. "Are you sure?"

Ava blinked. "Nobody else looks like Idexer, sir."

"Get to Warin. Tell him to meet me at my tent. Now!"

"Yes, sir!" Ava was off in the blink of an eye, her considerable wingspan lifting her off the ground and into the air with ease.

He didn't wait to see her off. A quick command to Torgeir to hold his station, and Cyneric's four massive paws raced him through camp faster than any shifter who had ever lived in the Enclave.

The Enclave had been the name of his home as far back as he could remember. Not a home as most think of it. Home for Cyneric wasn't a place. Home was the people and the faces he'd known since childhood, the rich history woven into their tent cloths, the stories that the roughly sewn and constantly mended fabric told to future generations. Where he lived wasn't nearly as important as the men, women, and children who shared his existence. It made this life bearable because, without it, Cyneric just as soon be dead.

It's why he raced through camp as though to beat the mighty pace of death itself. He would not lose all that he'd built his life upon. It was all he knew, all he ever cared to know.

He was paces away from his richly woven tent, a design of twisting crimson knots first begun by this grandfather when he spotted Idexer curled up on the ground. He wasn't walking anymore. He had slithered himself into a ball. The spot of blood between the ridges of his eyes wasn't hard to see against the mottled brown covering his scales. He was injured, but he wasn't hurt. A quick check by the healer when all of this was over and he'd be fine. The worst of his injuries had been to his pride. It glowed like the sun behind the greenish membrane of his slit pupils.

Cyneric left Idexer where he was and raced toward his tent a few paces away. He blew through the unattended opening on two human legs and saw just what his worried mind expected to see—ropes lying in a heap on the tent floor and the girl he feared might bring doom to his people gone.

He resisted the urge to grab something, anything and hurl it. Two seconds later, he was grateful he hadn't. Warin barreled in like the bear he was, expecting a fight, expecting anything but what he saw. He reverted to his human shape, a dark body of equal proportions to his animal form. As ferocious in form and power with arms the size of oaken branches. He was humongous and Cyneric had been in awe of him since the day they became brothers. Recent days had seen that brotherhood stretch as thin as parchment.

"Where is she?"

Warin gripped the curved blade that had been taken from him in their escape from the girl's home. It had since found its way back into his possession, but his dark knuckles expanding and lightening in color over his grip on the blade set Cyneric on edge. Warin was inspecting him with the same distaste he'd shown the girl when he first laid eyes on her.

"Do you think I'd be standing here staring at a mess of empty ropes if I knew?"

Warin came around the tent pole opposite him, kicking at the plate Cyneric had tossed a while ago. He nudged at a piece of egg with the toe of his boot. Snarling disgust was his only expression.

"You fed her?"

"What would you have me do?"

When he cast his dark eyes at him, they were hard as glass and equally impassive. "To get the answers you want? _Starve her._ Let her watch as you eat. Let her thirst as you drink. When hunger and thirst have driven her mad, then she will speak."

Ruthlessness was a part of what kept the Enclave alive and kept their families safe, but since his return, Warin had become a different person, one more ruthless than even the gods themselves.

Cyneric pointed to Rayan's cot. "With my son lying in his bed every night?"

"Bring her to my tent if you do not have the stomach for it."

The insinuation that he didn't have what it took to care for their people burned. Cyneric took one cautious step forward, not as one careful of riling the anger of his opposer, but as a man keeping his own fury tightly controlled.

When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth. "You are as much a father as I."

"And that is why I can do with her what must be done."

"We have what we came for, brother. The only thing I want out of her are answers. Torture isn't warranted."

Warin tossed his dark head back and forth. The bear pelt over his hairless scalp moved with him so fluidly that Cyneric wondered if the animal in him had not returned.

"You spare the girl to satisfy your need. Being without a woman has made you weak, _brother._ "

Blue flame erupted from wolf's eyes and bristled in the hackles upon his back. Warin was strong, but he was not fast. Cyneric had him on his back, paws on his wide chest and teeth seconds from embedding themselves into the flesh of Warin's forearm. The threat was clear. Drop the blade or be disarmed. Warin had cut too close with his words.

"What in the name of our fathers is going on in here?!"

Caught up in their mini-war, neither one of them noticed the shape that had darkened the entrance to the tent. This shape had curves the likes of which neither of them sported and tresses of bright orange flowed down her shoulders. Tattoos of the blackest stripes crossed her face, darkened one eye, and gave her full bottom lip a different color than the top. It was Katzen and she had one hand on her sword. Her golden, angry eyes were broken only by pointed, oval pupils.

Brought back to his senses, Cyneric released Warin, reverted to his human form and got to his feet at the same time.

"We were having a slight disagreement."

"You call that a disagreement?"

The three of them had known each other since they were younger. Katzen did not always know the difference between friend and leader. Now was one of those times.

"Did you even tell him what we saw, Warin?" Katzen demanded of the other man, her pupils having closed to thin slits.

Cyneric took two steps toward her. "Saw what?"

"The traps," Warin began, looking shamefaced. He stood and dusted himself off. "They had been tripped deliberately."

Another alarm was going off, this time in Cyneric's gut. "Where's my son?"

"With the rest of the children," Katzen answered.

"Do not be foolish," Warin growled, bringing his accusative glare right to Cyneric. "We are in no danger. Someone has only made a fool of us."

Katzen touched both men on the shoulder. "Stop it, both of you. Warin is right, Cyn. Someone set off the traps deliberately."

"I have to find my son," Cyneric said, moving to exit when Warin caught him by the top of his chest armor and pulled him back.

"The traps were set off to distract us and steal the girl right out from under our noses."

He pried Warin's strong fingers from him. "Or worse. Think, Warin! We pulled everyone to the north end of camp. Our flank is open."

Katzen sucked in air. "The children are on the south end."

Warin's snarl relaxed and his face fell the second a flutter of wings sounded outside the tent. Ava's human form was more devastating than the hawk who oversaw their borders. Like many in the clan, she wore a cowl that spoke of her heritage. An enlarged version of a hawk's beak curved over her brow, made darker by the tattoo that came down her face in an inverted V, blackening her forehead down to the upper portion of her cheeks.

Her ginger-colored eyes didn't flash with anger as Katzen's had. They were lit with a desperate fear.

"I saw them," she said, her chest rising and falling with the breath she could hardly inhale. "A horde of them, just like Warin described. They're coming from the south."

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed that glimpse into the Enclave's life. What do you think so far?**


	10. Chapter 10

**Life has been hectic, you guys. Sorry again for the lack of updates. This is the final chapter of Book One. I'm currently in the middle of chapter 6 of Book Two. Don't know how long it'll be before I have more for you as I've really been struggling with the direction this story is going in. I'll get it eventually. Just be patient with me.**

* * *

 **Kirra's Journey**

Episode 5: The Longest Journey, Part II

* * *

Book One

* * *

Chapter 10

When the dream came to him this time, Iolaus didn't question it. He just let it come. He let the darkness overwhelm him, let it block out his vision and deafen him. It didn't matter if he couldn't see his hand in front of his face because he couldn't have raised his hand if he wanted to.

He gave into darkness so heavy he couldn't move, silence so profound it rang in his ear, and air so thick he seemed to float upon it like a cloud. It was the only merciful sensation and none of it really mattered anyway. He'd accomplished what he set out to do. He'd warned Hercules. Now Hercules could defend himself. Hera didn't have the upper hand anymore.

Still, he wished his throat would work. He wished he could scream into the dark, piercing its heart with the words, _Take that, you jealous old crony!_ And then end it with a hearty cackle. But he no more had that in him than the desire to laugh at his own wit. His throat was a desert, parched and cracked, and his tongue was like a wad of leather in his mouth.

His ears, however, now they were perfect. The laughter he'd wished for was currently creeping toward him like a dank fog hugging the ground, and it wasn't his. No, definitely not his. This one pushed through the silence as loud as a cry and as hushed as death. It had a malicious bite he didn't care to hear twice. Problem was he already had.

He'd heard the voice once before in the waking world, but he had also heard it in his dreams. No one had to tell him who it was, no more than they had to explain the dark, coppery taste in his mouth. Nothing tasted as distinct as the combination of dirt and blood, and there was no laughter as distinct as that of Hera's newest plaything.

Even in this all-consuming darkness, Iolaus saw a head of flame and an armor-plated body standing over him in victory. Warning Hercules had been the dream. _This_ was reality. He'd failed. It had beaten him, broken him, and now he was practically in pieces under its boot.

Damn! How could he let this happen? Life was eeking out of him. Sure, his suffering would soon be over, but his friend's suffering was about to begin. And there was nothing Iolaus could do about it. This place and its visions of failure would be his eternal damnation. He could almost hear Hercules's screams of agony, his cry of pain. It sounded like…it sounded like…

" _Hades!"_

It sounded like Hades?

"Hades, where are you?"

No, it sounded right over his head! Hercules was in trouble!

The darkness wasn't holding him down anymore. He could move! Arms that he thought were broken were bending. Ribs that he thought were in pieces had mended. Life beat inside his once broken heart and vitality moved through him. What was once dark now became light. It might have burned his eyes but for the light now pulsing through his veins. He was alive and he wasn't about to let Hercules down.

Iolaus opened his eyes and found himself suspended. Not by invisible ropes or by the cloud his mind had conjured. He was in the arms of the only man Iolaus would ever give permission to hold him like a child.

The tail end of Hercules's scream was still reverberating in his ears. Not one second could he waste. As soon as his eyes flew open, he was up and out of Herc's arms with more energy than he knew what to do with rushing to his extremities. It was like tingling points of electricity the second his feet met the ground that charged into his arms and spirited into his fingertips. He was ready to take on the first one brave enough to think he could best Iolaus of Thebes in this state. He bet he could take on Zeus himself! Where was that flaming-haired bitch now?

Better yet, where was the fight? There was no one standing beside him but Hercules himself. Looking rather defeated, he might add. But as his heart rate slowed and the sense of danger passed, Iolaus had an even better question.

"Why were you carrying me?"

The question seemed more than logical to Iolaus, but Hercules wouldn't speak. He wouldn't even look Iolaus in the eye. He looked exactly the way he did that day when they were both about ten years old and he'd lost his kite in a tree. Iolaus watched him sigh and cross his arms. It was a little distressing, not to mention embarrassing. If Jason ever found out…

But that wasn't the worst part. Call it over-focusing, or befuddlement of the mind. Whatever it was, Iolaus had just noticed this place wasn't exactly the last place he remembered being.

"Wait a minute," Iolaus said a bit more dramatically than he would have liked. "Where are we?"

He couldn't exactly remember where he had been, but this candlelit room with its richly appointed drapes and fine dining couch adorned in a mountain of pillows and soft coverlets was not it. And by the look on Hercules's face, he seemed to know it. His second sigh said so.

"The other side," he answered.

Iolaus narrowed his eyes. "Other side of what?"

Herc had been his closest friend for as long as he could remember. They were brothers more than they were friends, and sometimes they were worse than an old married couple. They could argue each other under the ground depending on the subject and there wasn't a day that went by where one or the other didn't say or do something to bring out the exact look Hercules was giving him now. A look that says, _You're my best friend, but I could smack you across the face with a good heart._ What usually preceded that look was a dumb comment or a stupid reaction. In this case, Iolaus was the last one to speak. What did he say that was so dumb?

Comprehension hit him like a sack of potatoes. Not, the other side. Hercules meant _The_ _Other Side_. Iolaus's whole face pulled back as if someone had tied a string to each ear and yanked. His heart didn't feel any better.

" _You're dead!"_

That look like he could smack Iolaus remained, but it had shriveled in size. What eclipsed it was a disquieting expression that said something Iolaus didn't want to hear. Herc said it in the way he avoided Iolaus's eyes and held his breath. But worse than that, he wouldn't acknowledge the accusation. _You're dead,_ he'd told him and Hercules wouldn't say yea or nay. He wouldn't even look at him. He looked everywhere and at everything in this strange room but at him.

Iolaus had a feeling he knew why.

" _I'm_ dead?" he asked, not one hundred percent sure he even believed it, and silently pleading to Hercules words he could not speak, _Don't tell me I'm dead._

A few seconds of mulling the uncomfortable truth in his mind and Hercules finally gave his head a sullen nod. "Yeah," he carried over another dejected sigh. At least he had the guts to look him in the eye this time.

Iolaus almost laughed. This had to be a joke. He was full of energy. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, excited for a fight. He was lightning in a bottle. He couldn't be dead! But the look on Herc's face said all he needed to hear, didn't it? There'd been little reason in forcing it out of him. Warning Hercules hadn't been a dream. Iolaus had taken that long walk to find him. He'd trudged over grass, planted foot over foot across steep hills and through boot-sucking sand. He'd done his job. He succeeded. He warned Hercules. But that wasn't all he did.

"Toast," Iolaus said, and though it wasn't a question, the barest of lilts trailed at the end of his voice. Some small part of him still hoped…

The only answer he received from Hercules was a straight, if not highly perturbed face.

Iolaus lost it.

He might have been twelve the last time he could remember throwing a temper tantrum. Stomping his feet. Balling his hands into fists. Flying off at the mouth. Since then, he'd handled setbacks and disappointments like an adult. Though, there was nothing like dying to make one lose all sense of decorum.

Iolaus stomped his feet. His hands balled into fists. His body shook with a barely suppressed need to pick something up and throw it. If he could have dropped on the floor and kicked his legs in the air without looking like an idiot he would. _What am I talking about?! I don't have legs to kick in the air! I'm dead!_

"Oh! I can't believe that!"

"You better believe it," said a voice that hadn't come from Hercules.

Whoever said it ended Iolaus's tantrum with four words. He was on the verge of fulfilling at least one of those tantrum wishes. A bowl of fruit sat on the dining couch and Iolaus wanted to chuck an apple at the jerk who had the nerve to open his mouth, but he saw more than the man who followed the voice. He saw a woman, as well. No, make that a girl no older than Kirra. Auburn-haired and adorned in a pink gown, she was beautiful. But like Kirra, she was also older than her years.

She showed the man beside her what she looked like when he angered her. "Show a little consideration, Hades. Iolaus has had a rough day."

Addition had never been Iolaus's strong suit, but he was putting two and two together real easily today, if a little slowly. The man standing before him, clad artfully in the only color one might wear were he the god of the underworld—that being the color black—wore a cape of the same color. What? Did he fly around the underworld? Or might that account for his quick appearance?

Iolaus pointed a finger unabashedly. "That's Hades?"

But Herc wasn't big on answers today. He clapped a hand onto Iolaus's back and pushed him toward this unwanted introduction. Though, by the time they were a few meters away, the only introduction that took place was the one between Hercules's angry determination and the stalwart wall that was the god of the underworld. Hades knew what Hercules wanted as well as Iolaus did.

"Iolaus isn't staying here, Hades. Do I make myself clear?"

"Well, considering the condition he was in when he left Earth, which, if I must remind you, _was dead_ , I don't see that he has any other choice."

The god had bearing, good posture, and a measured voice, which meant he chose his words carefully. Other than the ridiculous Olympian get-up, Hades had an impeccable presence. Iolaus hadn't known what to expect of the one now responsible for his after-death fate, except for perhaps this unwavering stance on protocol. And he wasn't finished.

He showed Hercules how stalwart he could be when he turned his back and. "But, don't worry," he added as if offering the prize of honorable mention in a child's drawing contest. "He'll be going to the Elysian Fields."

The Elysian Fields! Not that he was ungrateful, but he would rather go back to where he came from. He would have said so, too, were it not for the soft hand of caution at his arm. The girl who reminded him of Kirra, in personality if not in looks, had stopped him.

Thankfully, Hercules followed Hades with heavy steps. When he spoke, there was an unmistakable edge to his voice. "No, my wife and children were the ones who didn't have any other choice."

Hades squirmed. "Hercules, please. Think of the precedent I'd be setting. I can't!"

"Think of the precedent _I_ set when I convinced Demeter to let Persephone stay down here with you."

 _That's right,_ he thought. _The girl here is Persephone, the daughter of Zeus and Demeter._

Iolaus hadn't been there to see the events take place, but Hercules had told him the story. Hades had kidnapped the girl because he hadn't the guts to ask Demeter for her hand. He was lucky the girl already had feelings for him. The so-called impeccable presence of Hades lessened in Iolaus's eyes, especially when he rolled his eyes in response to what Hercules said. He seemed to know Hercules would use that argument on him. He might have even had his own well-planned response, but his wife beat him to it.

"Hercules is right, Hades," she said, her cautionary hand still on Iolaus's arm. "He's the reason you and I are here together."

Hades turned back to her. "Yeah, but only six months of the year."

His response ended up sounding more like the petulance of a child than that of the god of the underworld.

Persephone placed hands on her hips. "If you're not nicer, it'll be _no months a year_."

"But…but, Sweetpea," Hades muttered.

Something weird happened to Iolaus. At any other moment in time, this interaction between gods should have struck his funny bone. The big, bad god of the underworld, the god every man, woman, and child feared more than Hera was groveling at a woman's feet. He was calling her _Sweetpea_ , for Zeus's sake! That should have been funny! He should have been rolling with laughter. And the reason had nothing to do with Hades's next remark.

"Iolaus is practically permanent inventory right now."

Iolaus could manage no more than a slack jaw.

"That is not true," Persephone said. "You know how bad things are backed up after the earthquake in Threcia."

Wait a minute. Had he just become an arguing point only because thousands were dead after an earthquake? And was Hades walking away in a huff like a sullen child? There was no point in speaking his distaste. It was like being back home and listening to his mother and stepfather argue. Persephone wasn't giving up either.

"You're buried in paperwork, Hades. Overbooked, _under_ paid…" She ticked her reasoning off one finger at a time. "And this new Enforcer is just going to make things worse. Besides, you promised me a little quality time."

Poor Hades! He looked unendingly beset upon. Iolaus watched him turned to Hercules like _he_ was the only who could possibly grasp the frustrations of wife troubles, and he was probably right, but his next comment left Iolaus utterly speechless.

"We were supposed to go on vacation last week."

Iolaus could hear it somewhere deep in the recesses of the mind where sanity still lived. It was himself screaming, _Vacation! You're worried about going on vacation! I'm DEAD over here!_

What calmed the screaming voice of the rational mind in an irrational situation was the look on his friend's face.

"Well?" Hercules asked.

Iolaus was no better with description than he was with addition. What he saw in Herc was desperation and a deep and bottomless well of fear that Hades would remain stalwart.

In the end, Hades buckled under the weight of a desperate man and a demanding wife. "Okay, okay, okay…"

He turned back, trying to regain the look of King of the Underworld, but in Iolaus's mind, he'd already lost it. Based on his displeasure at having been beaten, however, he hadn't lost any of his pettiness.

"If you want Iolaus back, you're going to have to defeat Hera's latest homicidal freak. But there are conditions."

"What conditions?" Hercules said while Iolaus convinced himself not to throw another temper tantrum.

There were always conditions with the gods. He imagined when one of Olympian status enrolled in 'Godhood 101' there were signs on the walls that read: _Know Your Conditions…_ And following that title would be a numbered list, starting with…

"Firstly, you have to do it by sunset," Hades said. He patted Hercules on the back as if that would assuage the ridiculousness of it.

"Why sunset?"

Hades opened his arms, palms out. "Those are just the rules."

Yep, Iolaus figured it right. The gods no more understood the conditions than their human subjects.

"Second…" Hades began, but then he paused and took in his gathered audience. "Walk with me. I'll explain."

Iolaus knew what that meant. A private conversation that no one, wife included, could butt it on. Well, screw that! This was _his_ life they were making deals over. Not some farmer twiddling frightened thumbs on the crossroads between the Underworld and the Elysian Fields. Or worse yet, Tartarus.

Iolaus took two steps to follow but ended on the third. Hades had placed an open but firm hand on his chest.

"Just Hercules," he said.

"Wait a second! This is about me, dammit! You guys are talking about me like I'm not even here!"

At least, that's what he wanted to say. The words never came out. True, it might have been unwise to curse a god, especially one that held the title of King of the Underworld. However, there were moments in life when one had to put down one's foot. And Iolaus wanted to with every fiber of his disembodied being, but Hercules silenced with him one exasperated raise of his hand.

"Who makes these rules?" Hercules muttered as he left to follow Hades, ascending a staircase lit in an ethereal light.

Was there a _descending_ staircase lit in an unearthly light somewhere behind him? Iolaus didn't want to know because he'd figured out the reason why he couldn't find his voice.

He had accomplished what he set out to do the second he left the side of Vedos and Avernus. He hadn't failed. He'd warned Hercules of Hera's "homicidal freak." He should be out there, fighting her, bringing her reign of terror from Corinth to Thebes to an end. But where was he? In the Underworld fighting to save _his life_ instead of the lives of the people of Thebes.

"Don't worry, Iolaus." Persephone had come to his side and place a soft hand on his arm. "Everything will be all right."

Boys don't cry, as the old expression goes. Iolaus didn't know much about that. He could remember plenty times when he'd shed a tear or two, but one thing he knew without question was that guys didn't go around professing their love for one another. Not unless they slanted that way, and Iolaus didn't. His love of women was way too strong. Although he may have never said the words, it didn't mean he didn't feel it. Men chose their way of saying _I love you_ carefully. It may not come out in those three specific words, but it always came across in action, in what they would be willing to do for the one they loved.

Hercules had just confessed the only way he knew how. He put Iolaus's life ahead of others, and while he might not agree with that decision, it touched him that Hercules thought that highly of him. _Him._ Iolaus. The annoying best friend that made stupid comments worthy of a smack to the head more than a few times. _That's_ what left him speechless.

Until now.

"All right?" came his incredulous response to Persephone. "None of this is 'all right.' I'm dead."

She smiled at his profundity and gave his arm a reassuring pat. "If anyone can save you from the clutches of Hades, it'll be Hercules."

Of that, Iolaus had no doubt. His worry was that now, Hercules would have to face this hellish Enforcer on his own. Iolaus hadn't the opportunity to tell him of Corinth, or of the temple at Thebes. But what turned his stomach was the vague but relentless implacable image of Jason and Alcmene looking down at him. They had been there when he…when he died. He couldn't remember having seen Kirra, but if they were there in Thebes, they were in just as much danger as anyone else, probably more. If that thing could seek him out in search of Hercules, then it wouldn't hesitate to kill a woman, young or old, to get what it wanted. And what it wanted was Hercules.

It was happening all over again. The events of the previous night were replaying like a dreaded nightmare. Men in armor. Men with swords drawn. Men with flaming torches. Marching over the green ground and between the lichen-covered trees like an invasion of fire ants. Only these weren't harmless insects that, at most, might damage a crop or two.

The trembling began from within, and like a moth escaping its carapace, it slowly worked its way outward toward her extremities until it stilted her breath and shook her vision. Kirra wasn't the only one who could feel it.

"Don't move," Otto-something-or-other hissed over his shoulder.

They had been marching themselves, albeit quietly, moving between trees and thick shrubs. The camp had been silent, oblivious to their passing as most of the villagers were hiding inside tents; tents that would no more protect them from the invading troops than might a basket of apples.

She and the thief had finally made it to the outskirts of camp. Ahead of them had been a rough semi-circle of boulders that would appear to have been strategically placed. Though she'd appreciated the camouflage from searching eyes, Kirra knew better. The camp itself had been strategically placed. The boulders made for a great location to stage a defensive ambush and partially protected the villagers flank at the same time.

Otto had said they were free and clear. Once they cleared the boulders, there would be nothing to fear, he said. He hadn't been lying, but to Kirra, it sure had felt like a lie. The second he rose from a crouch to scurry around the boulder, his back had gone rigid. She saw it in the squaring of his shoulders. She had no choice but to see it for she'd run right into the back of him. He scurried her back around the boulder as quickly as he had led her and hissed those two words at her.

He hadn't been so quick, however, that Kirra couldn't see exactly what she had seen the night before—Babylonian soldiers. Not two or three in search of a slave girl and her rescuer, but more than she could count in a quick glance. The cluster of armored bodies had been so thick it stained the green beauty of the forest. Based upon the snarling ferocity she had seen in the eyes of the closest one, these soldiers knew of the carnage that had been left of their kinsmen. The return of a slave girl and the capture of her who freed her was not all they had come for. They were out for revenge. They wanted blood.

He grabbed her and pushed her toward the opposite end of the boulder. Something inside screamed _RUN!_ She didn't want to relive what had happened when Tauthé disappeared (and not merely because every time she thought of it, her heart sank) but his insistent voice pressed upon her.

"We've gotta move." His pointed hand came over her shoulder. "See that tree over there?"

Kirra nodded and he pushed.

The tree in question had enough of a girth to hide them both. It was so close to the boulders, the passing soldiers would likely never see them. But that was where Kirra found fault with her thief's reasoning. If there was one thing she had learned about Otto in the short time she had known him, it was that his actions were rarely selfless.

Their backs now against the wide girth of the tree, Kirra turned to look at her goateed friend as the sound of numerous booted feet closed in. "What are we going to do?"

"We're gonna give these barbarians a wide birth. The second they pass us, we're up in the tree and it's _sayonara_ to the animal people."

He went on, saying something about giving her a choice—he could either bring her home or give her a chance to do something interesting with her life. Whatever that meant. Kirra halfheartedly listened. His idea made as little sense as the wolf man's questions, and though she may have never heard the word _sayonara_ before, she could guess what it meant.

Her mind went to the story Hercules had told her of the Battle of Plataea and what Nikolos had done to the men, women, and children of Danalos. She remembered how regret had welled as tears in the eyes of the known world's greatest hero. Kirra didn't want to know such regret. She had enough of her own.

Had a child of Danalos whispered, "Mama, I'm scared," minutes before its life came to a violent end at the edge of a sword?

"I can't."

Otto had been watching the approaching soldiers at the edge of the tree, ready to make his move whenever they had gotten to whatever point he'd designated in his own mind. Now, he was looking at her as if she'd lost her mind.

"What?"

"I cannot leave these people to die."

"You really are off your rocker." He grabbed her wrist. "I guess you forgot who tied you up, eh?"

"But there are children in that camp. They'll be slaughtered."

"If we stay here trying to be heroes, we'll get slaughtered right along with them. Is that what you want?"

"What I want is to go home to my mother, but that chance is gone. My conscience will not allow me to stand by while children are killed. Can yours?"

He weighed his options and showed his exasperation at them, then chucked a thumb over his shoulder. "When the going gets tough, sister," he said, and chucked that thumb at himself, "the tough get going."

She had experienced an amalgam of feelings for and against this man since she'd met him. Anger, frustration, gratitude, and even offense at his way of life. But she never expected to feel nothing for him in the end.

"Suit yourself." Fear might stymie her, death may even take her, but she would not be the one crying over the body of a dead child. "Goodbye, Otto."

She saw no point in peeking around the edge of the tree to catch a quick glance of Nergal's soldiers breaking through the heavy foliage to approach the outer edge of the protective semi-circle. She could hear their boots crunching through grass and bramble well enough, just like her dream. They were close, but innocent lives were closer.

Kirra broke from the cover of the tree, feeling deft fingers reach for her arm and the hem of her tattered skirt. She slipped away from both attempts and left Otto behind to cuss and moan. In fact, she thought she heard him say that very word quite vehemently— _cuss._ Whatever he meant by it, Kirra didn't bother to ponder. Her mind had to focus on another, more helpful set of words.

 _Think light and you'll be light._

The idea had seemed improbable to Kirra two nights ago, but here in the forest's shade from the afternoon sun, with death following close in her wake, she found it quite possible. She had spent the day and the better part of the night matching Tauthé's movements step for step. On bare feet, Kirra moved with quiet swiftness, thankful her skirts still had Tauthé's mid-calf rip and hadn't been mended. The dress was old anyway, and her tromping through the forest had dirtied her from head to toe. Her feet and calves still clung with mud. The old work dress Mother had made was already the color of burlap and blended well with the surroundings. She just needed one more thing to complete the ensemble.

Kirra bent to cover her blonde hair in leaves and tufts of dried grass. Her curls were springy enough to allow such brittle forest vegetation to cling. Her cover secure, she moved from tree to tree, every so often snapping a quick glance behind her to see the distance she put between her and the soldiers. The camp was in her sight. She could see tent flaps rustling in the afternoon breeze. No other movement caught her eye. No sound reached her ears. But she knew they were there huddled inside their tents. Her next move was going to be riskier than breaking cover before the sight of an advancing army.

Hugging to the outskirts of the camp, she made for the first tent in her path. She had gained five good minutes on Nergal's men and now she had to enter one of those tents unarmed and unprotected. Well, not completely unarmed. Kirra may lack a sword or any other implement of devastation, but she always had her wits.

She rounded to the rear of the tent (as it wouldn't do to burst in from the front) and followed the example of her captor's son. She dropped to all fours. The tent cloth was heavier than she had imagined, weighted with the unimaginable magic of a talented tentmaker.

 _These beasts have talents beyond ripping people's throats out? Hard to believe._

Once beneath the tent cloth, Kirra squirmed her way inside and changed her tune the second her eyes adjusted to the muted light.

In the gloom, Kirra found herself staring down a stuffed horse with button eyes. The toy, made by the hands of a mother who had loved her son, looked as frightened as the boy that held it in his arms with all his child's might. Little Rayan's bottom lip quivered, tears were on the verge of topping over onto his cheeks, and he wasn't the only one. Dozens of children huddled together in frightened clutches, hiding behind a partition of hanging silks and stacked wicker baskets. They ranged in age from toddler to teen. Many of them were barefoot, tear-stained and terrified, but all of them were staring at her leaf-covered head poking from underneath the tent cloth.

The sight of her brought a smile to the boy's face. Small comfort considering what was coming, but Kirra chose not to quell the magic. If Rayan believed a tent elf could save him from all that was bad in the world, she would rather he believe that than know the crushing hopelessness of despair. No child should ever have to experience the dread of knowing that death was always just around the corner.

Kirra returned his smile and brought a finger to her lips. The older children weren't nearly so trusting. One of them, an older boy with red hair, placed a restraining hand on Rayan's shoulder. But he wasn't looking at Rayan. His eyes had shifted to the right.

No sooner had Kirra focused upon the older boy than she caught movement out the corner of her eye. She turned her head, and it was a wonder she only turned partway because she came face to face with the pointed end of a sword. It was close enough to rest upon the bridge of her nose. The one who wielded it was Tauthé.


End file.
